Take My Hand
by Lavinia-T
Summary: A week before winter hols, a new student arrives at Hogwarts. Hermione finds herself inexplicably drawn to the newest addition to Gryffindor. Originally posted in 2002, before the release of OOtP.
1. Chapter 1

_The air was dank and suffocating._

_Through a small rectangular hole, probably no more than six inches wide, four inches high, a shard of dim light cut through the choking darkness._

Is this Hell? Is this my prison, forever?

_The enclosed space was painfully small, six and a half feet by three feet. The smell of sweat, blood, and filth mingled with the remarkably cold, yet humid, air._

_Indeed, it was a prison, and the girl who stood inside it, a prisoner. Her arms were secured with rusty, iron shackles above her head. Her legs were shackled together, and secured to the sides of the monstrous cell. The initial shock and pain had worn off, hours ago, and now she felt merely numb, and incredible fatigue. She thought of Tantalus, doomed forever to stand in a lake, thirsty and hungry, with water beneath him and fruit above him. But he could never quench his thirst, nor quell his hunger. She shifted her wrists in the shackles._

_Big mistake. The rough iron further chafed her wrists, and opened the old sores that never seemed to heal. Fresh blood began to tickle down her arms, the pain awakened. She gritted her teeth against it and tried to her imagine herself in a different place. A different world, far away from all the pain this one had brought her. But her mind was continually interrupted by the incessant shouting and banging from the prison outside._

I wish I were dead.

_She had wanted to die before, but not like this. Before, she had wanted to die to end the trivial suffering of adolescence -- the constant criticism she endured was bad enough, but what had triggered her attempted suicide was the endless feeling of isolation that had plagued her since the day she had discovered how very different she was from the rest of her world. The realization that she would never be accepted, never be the same, never fit in, hung over her head like a storm cloud. A long white scar, running parallel to the thin blue artery on her left wrist, stood as a testament to her internal struggle._

_But now...now she longed for death -- no, she ached for it. It was a need like no other. She prayed, begged, pleaded for the mercy that did not come._

How long have I been here?

_Maybe a few days...maybe a month. Time seemed to stand still. The world stopped to watch her, to laugh at her. She felt her mind shuddering, as though it were preparing to run._

_No...I will not go mad._

_She fought against the onset of delirium with the only reality available to her. Pain._

_She began to twist her hands against the shackles, squeezing her eyes shut against the brilliant shocks of pain that began to shoot through her arms. A low moan escaped her, as she imagined the skin on her wrists being scraped off by the harsh iron, the exposed nubs of her bones rubbing against the dirt-covered shackle. Her strength was gone -- she managed to coerce her hands to move out of sheer desperation. White sparks of pain began to fleck in front of her eyes, her vision blurred. Breath was coming in short, staccato gasps, as though her lungs were reluctant to continue filtering the dirtied air. Suddenly she became aware of a change in the environment. There was quiet...for the first time since she had arrived in the maximum security wing._

_The silence was unnatural, and a feeling of fear bloomed in her stomach. Was there a fire? No, there'd be screaming. What the hell was going on? Someone began to speak in very close proximity to the heavy wooden door that blocked her from the outside world. Another voice, high-pitched and scared, began to shout frantically, but was cut off by a much stronger voice._

_Stupefy..._

_There was the sound of a body hitting the ground. The girl struggled to keep her eyes open, hoping against hope that a psychotic, escaped prisoner would throw open the door and club her to death._

Jesus, at this point death by wild dogs would be fine, so long as I don't rot in this place!

_She opened her mouth and tried to shout, but her voice would not comply. Her vocal cords vibrated and whined uselessly against her parched throat. A harsh grunt was all she could muster. Footsteps approached. The door shuddered, and swung open. Harsh white light flooded into the cell, searing her eyes. She squeezed them shut, unable to open them against the white invasion -- it was the first time she had seen anything but darkness in days...maybe it was weeks. She heard muttering, and the shackles on her wrists opened. Her leg muscles were mush, and she collapsed into the arms of an unfamiliar man, who smelled strongly of wild herbs and chemicals._

"Hello, my dear," _said a kindly, wizened voice,_ "We have been looking for you." _She drew up her head, and tried to focus. But all she could make out was a very blurry old man with lots of white hair. Her head began to spin with the effort and pitched forward, onto the odd smelling man's shoulder, and closed her eyes._

----------

Professor Snape gathered the girl in his arms and rose. Dirt and blood flaked off of her face, arms, and bright orange jumpsuit. He turned and faced Dumbledore and McGonagall. Professor McGonagall's face was twisted in horror. She continued to stare disgustedly at the conditions in which the young girl had been held. She shook her head in raw fury.

"Sixteen years old, and they lock her away in this monstrous place. Sometimes I must question my faith in humanity." Dumbledore's eyes were sad.

"People are afraid of what they don't understand. They panic, lock it away, and try to forget it. In this case," he placed a weathered hand on the girl's pale forehead. "They locked her away." Snape tightened his grip on her as she began to shake. There was the sound of shouting -- guards were coming.

"It is time to go." Dumbledore looked very grave. There were three small pops, and the solitary confinement block was empty.

----------

Hermione Granger chewed thoughtfully on the end of her quill, gazing at the equations on the board. Professor Vector sat at her desk, looking over the previous evenings homework while her students attempted to decipher the daily equation. Professor McGonagall appeared at the door, and beckoned to Professor Vector.

"Class, I will be leaving momentarily. No talking, if you please." She hurried out to meet Professor McGonagall. Hermione, having finished the daily problem already, turned her attention to her book, reviewing the material for the coming lesson. It was late December, three days until Winter Break, and she wanted to be prepared for the midterm exam she knew Professor Vector was planning to spring on the sixth years.

"Hermione Granger!" Professor McGonagall stood in the doorway of the Arithmancy classroom. "I will be needing your assistance. Now."

Hermione looked up, confused, but swelled with pride. She gathered her books, shoved them into her bag, and walked out of the class, to the puzzled stares of her classmates. She followed Professor McGonagall's swift step down the hall.

"Anything wrong, Professor?"

"Not at all, Ms. Granger. Quite the contrary. We've admitted a new student to Hogwarts, and she's a bit...well...she needs some guidance. I thought you would be the perfect person to help her out." Professor McGonagall turned and bestowed a look of pride on her favorite student.

"Of course, Professor McGonagall, I'd love to help out!" Hermione became very excited at the prospect of acquainting a new student with the various sights and sounds of Hogwarts.

Professor McGonagall continued to hurry along the corridors, lecturing Hermione on the new student's situation, pausing only to shout at Peeves for leaving marbles all over the floor.

"Due to her late arrival, she was sorted in the privacy of Dumbledore's office. Naturally, I would not enlist your help if she had not been placed in Gryffindor. She is sixteen years of age."

They rounded a corner, Professor McGonagall stopped short in front of her office, and turned to Hermione. Her face was completely unreadable, but it seemed that a look of worry touched her eyes and vanished just as quickly.

"The new student is from the United States, I believe. Until now, she has never been attended…well, she has never been _formally_ schooled in the arts of witchcraft and wizardry. I will not elaborate on that, as it is her prerogative to enlighten you on her past. But I will say that she is somewhat...nervous. I have arranged for Ms. Patil to be removed as your roommate, and the new student will join you. I have every confidence that you will help her to adjust to these new surroundings, and our way of life." Hermione nodded, her mind bursting with curiosity. Professor McGonagall nodded sharply and she opened her office door and they stepped inside.

A huddled figure was occupying one of the wooden, uncomfortable looking chairs that sat in front of Professor McGonagall's desk. She seemed to fuse herself into the chair as though she were trying to disappear.

"Hermione Granger, I would like you to meet Summere Kalliope Natalya Tatum Elissa Lasyrenn Mithra Blackeberry." Professor McGonagall took a deep breath.

"Bit of a mouthful, isn't it," commented the girl in the chair.

"I should say so," Professor McGonagall quipped. "I do hope you will be writing a nickname on your assignments." The girl nodded. Hermione extended her hand to the figure in the chair, who looked up into her face, and Hermione was a bit shocked. Nervous didn't define this girl. She was damn near terrified, although her face didn't so much show it. Hermione could sense it. Six years of having the friends she did…well, she could read body language like a picture book. The girl extended her hand, and a weak smile, to Hermione.

"Now, please get settled into your new dormitory, Ms. Blackeberry. I am sure you will be very comfortable here."

"Thank you very much," came a wan voice. Hermione cocked her head at the accent – definitely American. _Great_. Hermione resisted rolling her eyes.

With that, the girl grabbed a rucksack from the floor, stood, and faced Hermione. She was quite tall – much taller than Hermione. Christ, she was probably taller than Harry. Hermione, without realizing it, drew her breath in sharply. Every feature on the girl's face seemed familiar. Her high cheekbones, and dark eyes stirred a memory in Hermione's subconscious. Maybe a movie…either way, the girl was rather pretty. Even the color and texture of her hair rang memorable, though it was secured messily in a rather large twist. Professor McGonagall noticed Hermione's gasp. The new girl dropped her eyes to the floor, as if she had heard something quite unpleasant, and walked silently out of the room. Hermione caught herself, shook her head back into reality, and ran out of the room after the girl, ever mindful of the withering glare she had received from Professor McGonagall.

The girl - Hermione settled on just calling her Summere, for now - was waiting for Hermione just outside McGonagall's office.

"I'm really sorry about that," rushed Hermione, "but you remind me of someone...I can't put my finger on who."

"It's fine," she replied. "I get that all the time." Hermione smiled.

"This way to the dormitories."

----------

On their way to the common room, Hermione couldn't help but notice how completely overwhelmed the girl was by her new surroundings. She had nearly had a heart attack when Peeves the Poltergeist had swooped down around her ears, screaming, "New girl! New girl!" Before she knew it, they were standing in front of the fat lady.

"Password?" The girl jumped a mile.

"Cornish Pixie Stew," said Hermione, and the portrait opened to reveal the common room. The girl straightened herself, and climbed in behind Hermione, wiping her face of all emotion. Hermione strode into the Gryffindor Common Room, the new girl behind her. Hermione had been fully intent on introducing her to the other Gryffindors right then and there, but something told her that now was perhaps not the best time for introductions. She gently took the girl's wrist and led her straight through the common room, and up the stairs to the girls' dormitory, through the sea of turning heads. She opened the door to the room they would share, and led her inside. The girl barely looked up at her new living arrangements - instead she sank down on the bed in complete exhaustion.

"Thank you," she whispered. "I am so confused..." and she broke off immediately. Hermione was struck by the suppressed pain in this strange girl's disembodied voice. She felt a bit of a twinge in her heart (though she couldn't discern why) and decided staunchly that she would show this girl how wonderful Hogwarts could be. But first, maybe she needed some time to herself.

"I'm going to leave you here to get settled in. I'll be back in fifteen minutes though, and then I want you to meet everyone. They're going to like you, I promise. Gryffindor is the best house in the school!" She smiled the first real smile Hermione had seen at the kind words. Hermione grinned back at her. Then she left the room and went back down to the Common Room.

Immediately, she was encircled by the other Gryffindors and bombarded with questions.

"Who was that?" "Where did she come from?" "What's her name?" "Why is she with you?"

Hermione held up a hand to stop the incessant questioning. A sea of eager faces looked upon her, waiting for answers.

"Well, I don't know anything about her at all, quite yet. I know she is from America. And she's clearly confused and homesick so I think we should all do our best to make her feel comfortable and welcome." This, unfortunately, didn't satisfy anyone's curiosity. Hermione grimaced with annoyance, and told the questioning minions (most especially Parvati and Lavender) to bugger off. She slumped down into a chair, next to her best friends, Ron and Harry. Harry looked as if he were simply bursting at the seams with something.

"What is it?" asked Hermione. "Do you fancy her already?" And she glared at him. Harry was her boyfriend, and she didn't like the look on his face at all.

"Oh quiet down, wench," Harry said fondly. "I was only thinking how she looks like someone I know."

"I noticed that too! But I simply can't recall who it is!" Harry rolled his eyes.

"**Star Wars**, Hermione. She's the spitting image of Princess Leia." Hermione clapped a hand to her forehead.

"Of course!" She'd seen those movies a few times. That was _exactly_ what she was thinking of. "I am so stupid!" Harry grinned, and nodded in concurrent. Hermione giggled and slapped him. She then tried to engage him in a serious conversation about the upcoming exams, and he tuned her out, much to her irritation. Ron was beside himself, fidgeting much more than usual.

"D'ya think she's got a bloke in America?" He asked this with great anticipation, and Hermione could only stare at him in amazement. Then she burst out laughing. Ron looked almost affronted.

"What?" he snapped. "That's the first girl I've seen that wouldn't have to stand on a chair to have a snog with me!" Harry and Hermione both laughed – Ron was six foot five, and his body seemed intent on continuing to grow.

"Yeah, back off, Hermione," joked Harry, "He's weighing his options." Hermione laughed, opened a book, and the conversation was over.

Up in the dormitories, however, the girl, who hadn't had the strength to correct Hermione concerning the use of her name, was still in a state of numb shock. She lay curled up on her new bed, her head hidden in her arms, and went over her objectives. She was in a foreign country, and completely in the dark about everything to do with Hogwarts. She had been taught magic, but underground like. Maybe her mysterious instructor had no idea what formal magical education consisted of. What did it matter that she had been instructed in magical arts since she was six? She was still bound to be left behind. And her social skills…well, objectives aside, she didn't want to think about that at all. She instead focused her thoughts on the past four days, which she had spent in the quarantined section of the hospital wing, recovering from her ordeal. Professor Dumbledore had been unbelievably kind to her, and she had liked him immediately. She had taken quite a liking to Professor Snape, however, and for no apparent reason. The man struck her as special. She liked Professor McGonagall too, cold and sharp though the woman seemed. Not that she was complaining, but...Oh well, what did she know anyways.

_I don't know anything_, she thought, _and I miss my sister…and my brothers_. Lifting her head from her arms, she took an appraisal of the new room she would call home. It was homey enough - it was even nice enough to describe as luxurious. The walls and floors were crafted of the same rough, gray stone that the entire castle was constructed of. On the wall opposite to the door there was a large window, which could have been described as a bay window (except for the fact that it looked upon a lake, instead of a bay). A large, cushy red sofa was pushed against this wall. Shelving was carved into the walls next to both beds. Hermione's shelving held, at the very least, three hundred books. The two four-poster beds were carved of magnificent dark mahogany, complete with velvet curtains and duvets of scarlet. Hermione's side of the room was immaculate. She tried to busy herself by putting away her clothes and putting up a poster or two, but when she withdrew a framed picture, the grief become far too much and she dashed off to the bathroom where she was violently ill for what seemed like a very long time.

----------

Hermione knocked. There was no answer. Carefully, she opened the door to the room they now shared. There was no sign of her new roommate.

"Summere?" ventured Hermione. The room was empty. The girl's trunk lay open, clothes folded meticulously on the bed. A small framed photo lay haphazardly in the middle of the floor, clearly a Muggle photo from its lack of movement. Hermione picked it up. Two girls in matching white dresses stood together, one markedly taller than the other. The taller girl had an arm draped around the other girl's shoulder. They were smiling brightly. Hermione placed the picture on the dresser.

"Where are you?"

She walked into the bathroom where she found the girl crumpled in the corner, her knees pulled into her chest, and her head resting on them. She looked like a picture of misery. Hermione reached out to gently touch her on the shoulder. She flinched, and her head shot up. Her hair was plastered to her forehead with sweat, and she looked rather green. She heaved herself to her feet, and immediately went to the sink to brush her teeth and gargle water. Hermione absently patted her back. She was quite aware of the fact that 'Summere' seemed adamant about pretending that absolutely nothing was wrong. And found it quite endearing. It reminded her of Harry.

"Are you ready to meet everybody now?"

"Yah. I guess now is as good of time as any. But there is something you should know." Hermione was not expecting any kind of revelation now, but she looked at 'Summere' with expectant eyes. "No one, at home anyways," a slight shudder seemed to pass through her body at the mention of home, "Calls me Summere. I'm Liss...or I'm Tate, most usually Tate...or I'm...well geez, people kind of make up their own nicknames, since there's so much to choose from." Hermione laughed.

"I've no doubt. Tell me your name once more, for good measure." The girl smiled slightly, and jokingly inhaled a massive breath.

"Summere Kalliope Natalya Tatum Elissa Lasyrenn Mithra Blackeberry."

"Bugger," muttered Hermione. "Seems like one could have a lot of fun with that name." The girl shrugged. "Your parents fond of names then?" She nodded.

"It's a generation thing for my mom. She's got like nineteen names, and she insisted on doing the same with her children. My dad, however, wasn't too keen on the whole idea, so they compromised, and my sister and I only got seven names each." Hermione very much wanted to hear her sister's name, however, she was a master of good judgment. Bringing up the girl from the picture would not be a good idea.

"So pick one."

"Well, what did most people usually call you?"

She was pensive for a moment. "Well, I heard bitch quite often." She smiled, and Hermione rolled her eyes.

"Fine...Summey, Tate, Mithril, Liss, Kallie, Homewrecker - just kidding! It doesn't matter to me. Pick which one you like."

"Come along then, Tate." And Tate followed Hermione down into the Common Room.

----------

Everyone tripped over each other to meet the new girl, especially Ron. Hermione was amazed at Tate's resilience. What had seemed like a broken, miserable girl in the privacy of their dorm room had transformed herself into an amiable, receptive person. Any qualms she might have had about acceptance, Hermione thought, must have been immediately quelled. Ron though, after shaking her hand, had resigned himself to a chair, by Harry, and he had gone an embarrassing shade of red. It was hard to tell where his forehead ended and his hair began. Harry did not help matters by telling Ron that he resembled a tomato on fire, and he received a painful jab in the shoulder for his trouble. Finally, it seemed that everyone had had their fill of the new addition to their house, and Tate joined Hermione with Ron and Harry.

"Where are you from?" asked Harry.

"Texas," replied Tate. Harry's eyes brightened with mischief, and Hermione gave him a warning look, which he ignored.

"Do you really ride horses to school there?" he asked, with a sarcastic undertone. Tate was unruffled.

"Of course," she replied, "and we wear leather pants and spurs there," Ron looked extremely hopeful at this statement, "and we all worship John Wayne as a god among men." Harry and Hermione burst into laughter and, to Hermione's surprise, Tate laughed a bit too. Ron, of course, having no idea who John Wayne was, nor Texas humour for that matter, looked very confused. Hermione made a mental note to explain all these Muggle things to Ron a bit later.

"So why are you at Hogwarts so late?" asked Harry. A muscle near Tate's cheekbone twitched.

"Just am."

----------

Harry, Hermione, and Ron had resolved into talking about their Potions test, which would take place at the end of the week. After perhaps a half hour of conversing about this, Hermione realized how hopelessly lost Tate appeared to be. She stood up, and announced that she would be leaving. Tate rose to accompany her, as if she didn't need to be asked at all. They exited through the portrait hole.

"Well, she seems like a nice girl," said Harry. Ron was still staring at the now closed portrait hole. Harry fought back a laugh, and waved a hand in front of Ron's face.

"What?" asked Ron. "I was just thinking..."

"That you wanted to see what she looks like without her kit on?"

"HARRY! That's not it at all! She's just...well...a bit of a mystery." Harry lost control. He fell out of his armchair, laughing hysterically.

"A mystery? Are you a poet now, Mr. Ronald Weasley? Has she stirred your heart so that you feel the need to spout corny, lovesick lines?" He was rolling on the floor in glee. Ron stood up, kicked him hard, and walked up to his room. Harry, cradling his injured ribs, continued to laugh. But he was thinking to himself that it was quite about time Ron had found himself a prospect. Hopefully, the American heritage wouldn't pose a problem. Harry recalled hearing that American girls were ruthless, materialistic weasels, and just as stupid as they were cruel. But Tate seemed all right, and he didn't see how a generalization meant anything. Besides, if she had been accepted to Hogwarts, and had been placed in Gryffindor, the possibility of her being stupid or cruel was pretty banished from his mind.

----------

Hermione swept down the magnificent halls, Tate by her side. She was intent on explaining every nook and cranny of the school to Tate, so that she would not be taken by surprise by anything. Unfortunately, Hermione knew that all she was really doing for Tate was blunting the shock a bit. Tate would, without a doubt, be completely thrown off guard when the magical feast appeared out of thin air on the dinner table for the first time.

"So, where did you go to school in America?" Hermione asked gingerly. Tate's shoulders stiffened a bit, but she did not hesitate.

"A private, religious high school."

"Is that a magic school?" Hermione knew that Tate had had no formal training, but she wanted Tate to tell her this on her own terms.

"No. It was just a high school for muggle kids. They taught stuff like Math, English, and Science."

Hermione smiled wistfully. "I remember those subjects," she said in a complacent sort of tone. Tate glanced at her sharply.

"When did you take those?"

"I took them in grade school, shortly before I was accepted here. I came from a Muggle family as well, so I know all about your world."

Tate looked quite sad.

"I was really good at chemistry," she said slowly. "Favorite class in fact. Damn class got me kicked out." She blanched, apparently realizing she had said something she shouldn't have. Hermione's curiosity got the best of her.

"How did chemistry get you kicked out of school?" She posed this question quite innocently, hoping very much that Tate would not think she was prying. Tate, however, ignored the question entirely. Hermione, disappointed, did not ask anymore about Tate's previous school. And on they went, with Hermione attempting to explain every single thing about Hogwarts, Tate listening with interest. Hermione could not tell if it was feigned or not.

----------

Hermione was quite right about Tate still being shocked at the normal motions of Hogwart's daily life. A ghost, the Bloody Baron in fact, had glided down the hall, and Tate went stock still, too petrified to move. The bloody Baron must have sensed this fear, because he pelted right at her, and she fell straight over backwards and knocked her head soundly on the floor. Her dark eyes contracted, and went completely blank. Hermione fell to her knees beside her and shook her gently.

"Tate, are you all right?" There was no response, just the blank look in her unblinking eyes, which fluttered, then squeezed shut. Hermione went cold all over, and shook her a little more strongly. "Tate!"

"Well, what do we have here?" A drawling, horrible voice sounded the arrival of Hermione's least favorite person in the entire world. Draco Malfoy's impeccably shined shoes appeared on the other side of Tate's prone body. "What have you done to this pretty little thing, Mudblood?" Hermione tensed with anger but, as always, she kept her head.

"None of your business, Malfoy. Do sod off."

"What the bloody hell are those?" Draco nudged the Tate's left foot with his own shoe, and then his gaze raked upwards. Tate's robes had come up to well over her knees and Hermione was disgusted at the way Draco was staring at her bare flesh.

"Those...are mine. And stop fucking staring." Tate grabbed her robes and covered her exposed thighs. She tried to sit up, but winced painfully as the world spun, and she lay her head back down. Draco was taken aback by her use of language (rarely anyone swore as he did), but he quickly recovered and smirked.

"I suspect you'd like to talk dirty to me like that a lot more often. On your back, just so of course." Hermione rose menacingly at Draco's insult, but Tate seized the hem of her robes and held her, tilting her head to look up at Draco.

"By the looks of you, the only way you'll ever hear a woman on her back talk dirty to you in a way you would like is if she charged by the hour." Tate's voice was dripping with acid, and Draco's face contorted in fury. Hermione however, started to choke on laughter.

"Fine then. I'll give you six Galleons, and I'm sure that is well above your going rate." Draco looked completely satisfied with himself, and spun on his heel to saunter away. Unfortunately, he got about four strides away when he was lifted off his feet. He hung in mid air for a split second, with a look of incredulous shock on his pale, pinched face. Then he pitched sideways into a wall, and landed hard on his tailbone, grunting surprise and pain. Hermione was dumbfounded. No one had been there to push him. She was still kneeling besides Tate, and Tate was still flat on her back, no wand visible. Hermione hadn't even heard a spell spoken. But there was a far away look in Tate's eyes, and a shivering voice in the back of her own head, that made Hermione think Tate had something to do with the invisible attack on Draco. Luckily, before he could recover and make any accusations, Tate was on her feet, pulling Hermione down the corridor.

They rounded a turn and Hermione grabbed Tate by her forearms. She would have preferred to grip her upper arms and look directly into her eyes, but Tate was a good head or two taller than she.

"Did you do that?" she asked incredulously.

"Maybe." There was a twinkle in Tate's eyes and Hermione somehow knew she would not get anymore than that out of her. However, at that point, she noticed Tate's hand stray to her pocket, where her wand was undoubtedly stowed.

"So what are those shoes anyways?" she asked grinningly. Tate grinned back.

"They're Birkenstocks. They're all I ever wear."

"You must be mad! They're - they're sandals and it's the dead of winter around here! Your feet must be freezing!" Hermione was shocked, and looked down to stare at the remarkably odd sandals that consisted of two plain leather buckles strapped over the tops of the girl's rather large and white feet - on one of which, was the tattoo of a multicolored gecko.

"I like the cold." Hermione shook her head and thought, barking mad! But they laughed together, and continued on, as Hermione pointed out the various sights of Hogwarts.

----------

Tate choked on her breath when the dinner feast appeared that evening. Harry grinned and slapped her on the back, chum like. Tate snapped back into reality and her face broke into a wide grin. Ron went red at the sight of her smiling, and busied himself with the mashed potatoes, which he managed to spill all over himself. Hermione rolled her eyes and removed the food from his clothing with quick cleaning charm. Tate was looking curiously at the food.

"What is that?" She pointed to the large bowl of steak and kidney pudding. Hermione told her, and Tate shrank away.

"Kidneys?"

Hermione rolled her eyes, and began heaping food on Tate's plate. Tate looked on, indifferently, as if she had no intention of eating anyways. Realizing that tomorrow was the last Quidditch game before the end of the winter term, Hermione turned to Harry.

"What time is the Quidditch match tomorrow?"

"Two 'o' clock, I b'lieve," mumbled Harry, his mouth full of roast turkey. "'S against Slytherin, as usual. The dirty buggers'll be trying every rotten trick they can think of."

"Not that it'll help them any. There's not a chance Malfoy will catch the Snitch before you, Harry. He never has, not once!" Ron beamed with Gryffindor glory. They definitely had the best team in the school. At the mention of Malfoy though, Hermione's eyes glittered and flickered to Tate. Ron caught this immediately, and said to Tate,

"Met Malfoy, have you?"

"Malfoy? No, can't say that I have. But then again, I can't remember anyone's name, except for y'all." Dean, who had been eavesdropping, snickered at the word 'y'all' and was about to comment, but a death glare from Hermione silenced him.

"Oh yes you have," interjected Hermione. "You met him in the halls, right after the Bloody Baron knocked you over."

"Oh, right. Forgot about that." Tate appeared to be quite neutral about her meeting with the most hated Slytherin in the whole school. Hermione recalled Draco as being particularly horrible, but then she reminded herself that Tate had held her ground all right.

"Isn't he awful? No one can stand him, he's a pathetic excuse for a human being," Ron spat, murderously. Tate just shrugged.

"He just seemed like an obnoxious pansy to me. Bet he's not a real blond either." The table dissolved into laughter. Hermione laughed as well, but she still couldn't shake off an unidentifiable feeling she got whenever she thought about Draco and his invisible assailant. She felt as if there was something she knew...but couldn't put her finger on it. To occupy herself, she engaged Seamus in conversation about his ongoing relationship with Ginny Weasley. This brought up the issue of the Yule Ball, which was to occur the evening before the beginning of Winter Break. Everyone began chatting animatedly about what they were wearing, who they were taking, and who the musical entertainment might be provided by. Hermione was in the middle of discussing her dress robes with Lavender Brown when she looked over and noticed that Tate was gone. She hadn't even seen her get up. When she pointed out the girl's absence to Harry and Ron, they were just as surprised. Nobody, it seemed, had heard or seen her get up to leave.

----------

Professor Snape scrutinized the boiling concoction in front of him. It was a violently red hue, with bright bubbles of bursting acid green. He had been simmering this potion for six days at least. By his calculations, it would be ready within the week. A hand came down on the table, next to the cauldron. He glanced at it. Long elegant fingers, short fingernails, tiny scars adorning the knuckles like lace.

"Ms. Blackeberry," he said without looking up, "how was your first day?"

"Unnerving," she said, "and yet...like I've been reborn. Guess that amounts up to good, eh?" Snape looked up from his potion, fixing his glittering black eyes on her. She looked considerably more alive than she had four days ago. He smiled, ever so slightly.

"I'd prefer if you would make your presence known before showing up. You may find it impressive that you can sneak about without a sound, but others merely find it disturbing." Tate giggled and shook her head.

"You know I don't do it on purpose, Professor. Its just habit."

Professor Snape snorted, removed his spectacles and looked at her. "Just like it is 'habit' to use your so-called "telekinetic" powers on fellow students?" Tate blanched, and looked at her feet. "Yes, my dear, Mr. Malfoy mentioned his unfortunate accident in the halls following his first encounter with yourself and Ms. Granger. This has been discussed thoroughly between you and the headmaster. I trust it will not happen again." He raised an eyebrow at her, and she nodded fervently.

"I'm really sorry about that. He insulted me, and I reacted badly. I'm still a bit sensitive to things like that. I slipped - it won't happen again." Snape nodded, and brushed a bit of lint off her shoulder.

"You realize," he said silkily, "that as a Gryffindor, your presence here could be seen as...suspect...even unbecoming." She smirked.

"So? I don't care. Everyone is at dinner anyways."

The classroom door closed. "Not everyone." Tate whipped her head around. A very familiar, very blond boy stood behind her. "Met you before, but not properly." He extended his hand. "Malfoy. Draco Malfoy." Tate giggled, but quickly suppressed it. A muscle worked in Draco's jaw. She took his hand in hers, and they shook. Draco was quite surprised by her strong grip.

"Shaken and not stirred, I suppose?" Draco and Snape looked at her in confusion. "Sorry. I'm uh…Summerre Blackeberry. Call me Tate." Draco smirked.

"Tate from Summerre? Interesting nick, is that. How did you come by it." Tate smiled at him.

Tate recited her lengthy name. "I gave Hermione a choice of nicks. She chose Tate, so that's what I'll go by." Draco looked annoyed.

"Trust Granger to pick the most boring nick she could find out of that wildly amusing pack." He looked thoughtful. "I believe I'll call you Kalliope. That's easily the most irritating name you've got." Professor Snape's face twisted into his trademark sneer. Tate nodded to Draco, and leaned over the cauldron to get a better look at the potion that was stewing inside it.

"Nearly ready, huh?"

"Indeed Ms. Blackberry. Perhaps in the next few days." He put a lid over the cauldron, and swiveled around in his chair, to face his desk. He began sifting through papers. Draco settled himself in a chair and kicked his feet up on a table. He lazily put his arms behind his head, and surveyed Tate up and down. She perched herself on a table, and stretched a long leg out in front of her, balancing her foot on the edge of the adjoining table. Draco watched her in fascination. Eight silver earrings glittered in her left ear. Her motions were fluid and graceful, which he found quite odd for her height. She was very tall, probably taller than he himself was, and he stood at an even six feet. The only girl he knew that tall was Millicent Bulstrode, and she was as clumsy as a cat on roller skates. Tate bit her lip as she examined her hands, running her fingers over the multitude of white scars.

"So," Draco began, "why so sharp this avvie?" Tate looked up at him, as though the answer should be obvious.

"On edge, I guess. Don't particularly like people looking at me for too long."

Draco smirked. "Well, you won't get far round here with that attitude. Everyone watches everyone else. It's how Hogwarts survives. You busy yourself with other people in the hopes you'll forget your own problems."

Tate groaned. "Sounds like my old high school." Draco raised an eyebrow at her. "My old 'Muggle' school, as you people would call it." Draco nodded, and thought for a moment, choosing his words.

"A Muggle, are you?" He tried to be casual about this. Tate didn't blink an eye. She looked right at him.

"Yah. Muggle-born, Texas bred. Hermione told me of your distaste for our kind. What did she say you referred to it as...oh yes, Mudbloods." She looked at him appraisingly. "Not very nice," she scolded, clucking her tongue. Draco shrugged.

"Well, old habits die hard. I've got an image to live up to. Whether or not I buy into it all is my little secret." Tate narrowed her eyes at him. Draco shifted uncomfortably - for a moment it felt as though she were looking directly into his soul. She blinked at him.

"I see," she said. "You play the game."

"I suppose that's one way to put it," agreed Draco. "But if you are curious, I hate Harry Potter and his two lemmings out of my own free will." Tate shrugged at this remark, and they sat in silence for a moment or two. Tate directed her attention to the cabinets on her left. There were hundreds of glass bottles and flasks inside, all holding colorful fluids. Several large jars held some very curious objects. Tate squinted, and could roughly make out the outline of what looked like a large dead salamander floating in one of the jars.

_Awesome. I'd love to get into that cabinet_! Her musings were soon interrupted by Draco.

"About your name," he drawled slyly, "I'm noticing a bit of a pattern." Tate's eyes flashed in fascination, and a tiny smile twitched at the corners of her mouth. Draco noticed this, and began to grin.

"A pattern," she asked innocently. "Whatever do you mean?" Draco settled himself back in his languid position and assumed a superior tone.

"Seems to me they're all of different origin and some are historical. Any significance in that?" He stopped when he realized that Snape had spun around in his chair and was studying him intently.

"Unless you children have any more questions for me, I think you had better retire to your common rooms and get to work on the homework I gave you." Draco rose to leave slowly, fully intent on following Tate and haranguing her about the significance of her lengthy name, but he turned to find she had already disappeared. Frustrated, he waved to Snape, and exited the classroom, heading straight for the library.

_There's a rhyme to this madness_. Draco furrowed his brow and quickened his step.

----------

Back in the common room, everyone was rushing to study. End of term homework was due, and people were working like mad to get it out of the way so they could relax and talk about the holidays freely. Tate was exempted from the homework, having missed nearly the entirety of the first term. Winter break would begin in two days, and, as usual, Harry, Ron, and Hermione had signed up to stay over the holidays.

"Who is Summerre Blackeberry?" asked Ron, while he and Hermione were signing the sheet (which was posted on the Entrance Hall bulletin board), shortly after dinner.

"Oh, that's Tate's real name. Tatum is one of her middle names, and I suppose she just shortened it a bit."

"You mean she has more than one middle name?" Ron was quite interested in any tidbits Hermione had to offer on the subject of Tate.

"Yes, she does, but I can't remember all of them. Perhaps you should ask her during free time." Hermione grinned wickedly. Ron turned red and shot her a very nasty look. She laughed, and they made their way to the common room. However, when they got there, Tate was nowhere to be found, and Ron looked very disappointed.

"I'm just going to go to my room and get some books," Hermione said soothingly, and she shot up the stairs, threw open the door, and shouted, "Tate! Where are you?"

"Right here, where do ya think?" Tatum peered at her through an opening in the thick, red velvet curtains surrounding her four-poster bed.

"Oh," said Hermione, feeling rather stupid, "why don't you join us downstairs."

"I will, eventually." She looked back down at her duvet. Hermione's eye caught a flash of silver, and she walked over to Tate's bed and looked at the foreign objects she was fussing over. Hermione squinted, and recognized the small silver device and the dozens of shimmering, round discs lying next to it.

"Those won't work here!" Hermione was appalled. "There is too much magic in the air! They all go haywire. I'd suggest you read **Hogwarts, A History** over the Christmas holidays, if you are going to be attending school here." Tate looked up at her with a bored expression, but her eyes were smiling. From her satchel, she withdrew a velvet bag, which she opened and upended, spilling several silver and unfamiliar tools on the duvet.

"I'll bet you ten bucks that in one hour we will both be listening to my impeccable selection of music, and we will be listening to it from this." Tate indicated the small CD player in front of her. Hermione scoffed good-naturedly, and simply nodded in acknowledgement to Tate's ridiculous proposition. Then she stalked out of the room, knowing there wasn't a chance on earth anyone could get those devices to work, even if they were within a five-kilometer radius of Hogwarts grounds. Tate couldn't be serious, but let her entertain herself, if she wanted to.

Hermione re-entered the common room and threw herself into an armchair between Harry and Ron.

"Where's your new friend?" asked Harry, without looking up from his Divination planetary chart.

"Playing with her toys." Ron looked up, and so did Harry.

Harry's eyes were full of mischief. "What kind of toys?" Hermione spluttered in laughter and punched him playfully in the shoulder.

"She's trying to make her Muggle machinery work. Complete waste of time, really. She ought to be studying up on the school, or familiarizing herself with the grounds, classes, and such. Professor McGonagall told me that she's had no proper schooling whatsoever until now." Both boys snapped to attention at this, and exchanged worried looks with each other.

Ron was aghast. "How the bloody hell is she supposed to know what we've been doin' then? We're six years into school, and without proper teaching I've an inkling that she won't know shite about potions, charms, or anything we've been looking at! They'll kick her out!"

While Hermione found it quite cute to see him looking slightly miserable over the thought of never seeing someone he hardly knew again, neither she nor Harry could smile. They too realized how far behind Tate must be, and it was probably inevitable that she would fail out. However, Hermione's thoughts were soon interrupted. A remarkably loud explosion from the girls' dormitory startled the common room. Hermione jumped to her feet, knocking over a side table (this crashed into Ron, although Hermione took no notice). She dashed into the girls' dorm, and up the stairs to her room. She threw open the door only to be assailed by a cloud of thick purple smoke. Coughing wildly, she waved it away and began shouting into the smoke-filled room.

"Tate, are you alive? What the hell d'you think you're doing! You must be completely mad! This cloud smells like bloody CANDY! Are you satisfied now? Do you understand why no Muggle device will -" She was cut short by the song that began to play. "Sing Sing Sing" by Benny Goodman was echoing off the walls of their room.

Hermione was stunned. The smoke was dissipating fast, and Hermione could see the blurry form of Tate whirling around, dancing fluidly to the music. Her silver CD player lay on her dresser, functioning perfectly, the sound magically amplified from a device that would normally require headphones. Hermione stared at her in confusion. A crowd was gathering behind her as female Gryffindors rushed up to see the commotion. The smoke was clearing more steadily now, and Hermione watched Tate dance. Her hair was down, and it fell nearly to her waist - dark brown hair with deep red streaks throughout. It swirled out behind her as she masterfully spun in circles on one foot. She grabbed Hermione's hands, willing her to dance. Hermione laughed nervously and tried to pull away.

"I don't know how to dance!" She had to yell to be heard over the music.

"I'll teach you then," Tate grinned at her. "Everyone should learn how to dance. It's great fun." Hermione ducked as Hermione glanced at the CD player once more and realized that it was continuously emitting a small stream of that candy-scented, purple smoke. Laughing to herself as she attempted to identify which candy the smoke's fragrance reminded her of, she skipped over to the CD player and turned it off. Tate ceased her dancing and grinned at Hermione.

"That's ten bucks you owe me, girly." And she danced out of the room. Hermione sighed in mixed irritation and amusement. This is going to be a long, long year, she told herself, and followed Tate down the stairs.

----------

Everyone wanted to know how Tate had enchanted her Muggle device to work. Tate just smiled, and remained evasive, as she had been all day.

"The trick is just to make it a magical object itself."

"Yah, but how do you do that?" Dean Thomas had nearly fallen flat on his face to get near her - he was dying to find out how he could make his Nintendo work on school grounds.

"Do you transfigure it? What're you playin' at?" But Tate wouldn't let anyone in on her crafting. She simply shrugged off all of the questions, settled herself in chair that was separated from the rest of the people in the room, and appeared entertained by the fire. Everyone else returned back to their respective studies. Ron, however, couldn't keep his eyes off of the new girl. When she sat by the fire, her skin seemed to glow with the reflected firelight, and her hair glimmered with gold and red highlights. He watched as she furtively glanced around, and removed a book from her pocket and began to read. He returned his gaze to his Divination homework, and found it already done. Knowing Tate had no homework of her own, he figured now was as good of time as any. He got to his feet rather shakily and walked over to her.

"So..." he began, but lost his train of thought when she looked up at him. Lovely weather, he thought to himself. Oh shit, I've lost it - he tried to begin again.

"What is your full middle name - I mean, your full name," he stuttered, and internally kicked himself for being a twitchy git.

"Why?" Ron was not prepared for resistance.

"Cause I'm curious," he said, and this much was true. "How often do you meet a girl whose name is 'Tate'? Sounds like a chap's name now, doesn't it?" He immediately winced, thinking he'd said the wrong thing, but her eyes twinkled in amusement.

"A 'chap', eh? God, you people talk weird here. And yah, I guess 'Tate' is a bit of a masculine name, but at least its remote and I don't have to worry about half the class looking up when my name is called." She looked very thoughtful suddenly, and seemed to talk more without realizing it. "I doubt I'd have a problem sharing the same name with someone at this school though...everyone has such amusing names..." She smiled with him.

"Won't you sit down?" she offered, and Ron beamed and took the seat across from her. They immersed themselves in friendly conversation.

Hermione snuggled next to Harry on the couch, and remarked to him that she had not seen Ron smile so big since Fleur Delacour had graced Hogwarts with her magnificent, if not completely obnoxious, presence. Harry agreed, and lightly stroked her hair while thinking of newfangled deaths he could put on his Divination homework.

"Death by stampeding hippos...now there's an original one..."

----------

Draco Malfoy sat at a table, surrounded by piles of books. He slammed the one he was reading shut, and tossed it aside. Scanning the titles of the pile nearest him, he seized one entitled **Whats in a Name?** Grumbling, he opened it, and began skimming the chapters.

_Name Charms...Perfect_... He flipped to page 492, and began to read.

_Name Charms are among the very few spells that are irreversible and totally permanent throughout the duration of life. Name Charms must be performed at birth to be effective. To err in the casting of a Name Charm can cause severe deformations and abnormalities to arise in individual being charmed._

Draco flipped through the pages that described each particular charm, but he could find none that fit the profile of Tate's odd name. Nothing seemed to match up. Most of the charms he looked at focused upon the charming of one specific name, and since this book was not from the restricted section, the charms were very broad and non-specific. Draco sighed. He needed to get into the Restricted Section.

He became suddenly aware of a presence behind him. He sat stock still. He had heard no footsteps, could discern no telltale breathing, but he knew someone was there - his internal sensory alarms had been honed to perfection over the years – especially the last two. Quick as lightening, he kicked back from the table, and felt his chair connect with the stomach of whoever was spying on him. He leapt up, seized the shoulders of the spy, and threw him roughly onto the table. Draco jammed his elbow into the throat of whoever had snuck up on him, and raised his fist threateningly. He found himself staring into deep, chocolate brown eyes, shot through with specks of gold.

"Tate?"

She smiled painfully at him. Draco was furious. "What the bloody hell do you think your doing? Sneaking up on me like that...I could have hurt you!" Tate twisted her head, and he removed his elbow from her throat. She gasped and drew in a breath, still staring at him in shock. She rubbed her neck, accepted the hand he offered, and sat up. She was wearing a white, long-sleeved shirt and blue flared trousers. She had a small knit hat on her head, and her hair streamed over her shoulders and back, candlelight catching the red streaks in her hair and glinting off them like firelight. Draco found himself momentarily speechless - but why he could not discern. Girls rarely had any effect on his composure, it was usually the other way around. He was used to being fawned over. But the way Tate acted, he might as well have been a statue. Her face was nearly always devoid of any strong emotion, especially the one he had come to recognize so well, on so many other girls - lust. This annoyed him greatly, yet intrigued him.

"Well, that's a first," she said grudgingly. "I've never been caught before." Draco smirked arrogantly.

"People find it quite difficult to catch me off guard. You did very well, but I daresay you need a bit of practice." Tate rolled her eyes at him, and looked at the books that were strewn all over the table.

"101 Nomenclature Spells: A How To Guide on Charming Your Children. Reading up on me, are you?"

"Not a chance," Draco sniffed. "I haven't time to go mucking about on an issue like that." It was Tate's turn to smirk.

"Fat chance," she said. "You'll never find it in these books. Hermione's looking too - she won't say so, but I know she is. Why is this an issue?" Draco shrugged.

"I simply like to know things. It's a nice distraction from Arithmancy, anyways."

"Aha! So you admit your studying up on my name!" Draco blinked, and was momentarily furious with himself for giving away his intentions. Too late, however, he surmised, and decided to press her for information. Unfortunately, Tate managed to deflect every veiled inquiry he made. Finally, exasperated, he came clean and asked her straight out.

"Look, I know there is some sort of charm on your name! Just tell me what it is, or I will find out anyways. But it will save me lots of time if you help me out just a bit." Tate looked at him hard, narrowing her eyes. He was, without a doubt, the most beautiful boy she had ever seen. His hair glinted like white gold silk - she had a strong urge to reach out and touch it, but immediately pushed it aside. His features were impeccably chiseled, reminiscent of some earthbound Adonis come to life. Everything about him, down to his cold gray eyes, was perfect in an icy, superior sort of way. She withdrew a pen from her pocket, to Draco's complete horror. He snatched it away, and held it out of her reach. She frowned at him.

"May I have that back, please?"

Draco shook his head.

"I'll be having none of those archaic Muggle devices around here." He threw her pen across the room. "Use one of these." He went into his book bag and withdrew a quill. He went to hand it to her, but found that she was already writing on a spare of parchment with the pen he had just thrown. Furrowing his brow, he stared at her. She did not look up. Draco shook his head...She must have had another. He scanned the floor for the thrown pen, but it was too dark to see anything. Tate finished writing, and placed the parchment between them. She gestured to the first word.

"Summerre. First name. It's a weird twist on the season's spelling."

Draco rolled his eyes. "Thanks for clearing that one up," Tate continued, unperturbed.

"Kalliope. That's Grecian - she was the muse of epic poetry and eloquence."

"She was the oldest muse as well." Tate glanced at Draco, who was smirking in a very annoyingly superior manner. Tate resisted an urge to knock his chair backwards.

"Next is Natalya, which is Russian, and means Christmas day. Tatum. That's old English, and it's derived from some sort of homestead...I don't know, a geographical location of some kind. Elissa has got no known meaning, but it's definitely Roman, and that's all I know. Lasyrenn. That's a Voodoo goddess, the goddess of water, bridges, mirrors, and kisses." Draco raised an eyebrow. "Mithra, and he's the Persian god of light and friendship."

"What? Only two deities? Parent's didn't feel you were important enough for three?" Tate rolled her eyes at him.

"I'm not really one to talk on that subject. If I needed advice on arrogance, I'll come to you." Draco looked at her angrily, but softened when he saw laughter in her eyes. "And then, Blackeberry." Draco stared at the paper, and drew it toward him. He exhaled a long breath, and geared up his mind for some much-loved crafty thinking.

"So...season, Russian, old English, Roman, Voodoo, Persian, and food...you're winding me up." Draco looked up at Tate, meeting her eyes. For a moment, neither spoke. Draco felt a sense of peace and calm wash over him, and he reveled in it. Absent-mindedly, he took a lock of her hair between his fingers, and began to wind it around. He returned his attention back to the paper, confounded. Tate grinned to herself. Unbeknownst to Draco, she herself had never found any significant correlation between her name and...well anything. It was probably nothing special anyways. Lots of people had charmed names. What really mattered in the charm anyways was its purpose – not its roots in history.

"Do you dance, Ms. Blackeberry," Draco drawled, formally abandoning the original subject. Tate nodded. "And that means that you can dance…what, exactly? Muggle stomping about doesn't count." Tate laughed.

"Classically and contemporarily trained in all the important forms," she said, her eyes trained on the book.

"Perhaps you would like to accompany me to the Yule Ball, then?" Tate was thoughtful for a moment.

"Yah, alright," she said, and smiled at him. Draco nodded to her, properly. They pondered over the etymologies of her many names for perhaps another half hour, and then departed for bed.

Draco left with a feeling of unnamable emotion. He was positively certain that he had no romantic attraction to the strange new girl, although he did find her quite pretty. What he felt was something different. Something he had never fully experienced before. As he neared his own common room, his breath abruptly caught in his throat. He matched the emotion with a name. He was feeling the pleasant euphoria of early friendship for the first time in his life.


	2. Mind Trip

Ron and Harry were up late, as per usual. Hermione had gone to bed half an hour earlier, which was quite uncharacteristic on her part. Harry suspected that she was likely studying up in her room in order to avoid getting trapped in distractive conversation.

"So, what did you and Tate talk about?"

Ron shrugged. "Home life and such. She doesn't like to talk much, but she was really interested in the Burrow, and growing up with wizard parents." He sighed. "It's weird. She really doesn't know much about wizards. She didn't know who you were, nor much about You-Know-Who."

"Well, that doesn't make sense," said Harry, leaning back in his chair, "Why on earth would she even be invited to study here if she hasn't any prior education? That's just…stupid." Harry was thoughtful for a moment. "I can't put my finger on it, but something about her just doesn't sit right with me. What I mean to say is..." He scrunched up his face, searching for the right words. "Blimey, I don't know. It just doesn't add up. _She_ doesn't add up." Ron nodded, slightly - he was no longer blatantly enamored with her, now he was rather confused, albeit still interested.

"Talk to Hagrid," Ron suggested. "He always seems to know what's going on around here. And if he won't come out and tell you, you can always weasel it out of him." Harry grinned and nodded.

"I think I'll do that."

----------

Hermione had long since been nestled into her luxurious bed, deep in sleep, when she was startled awake. Sitting up like a rocket, she wondered what had roused her from such a peaceful slumber when she heard it. A bone-chilling scream shattered the silence, and Hermione felt the hot, viscous blood in her veins turn to ice. She caught her breath, and leapt out of the bed and threw back the curtains to Tate's own bed. What she saw terrified her.

Tate was twitching and writhing in her bed, as though someone were performing the Cruciatus Curse on her. And she began to scream again, high-pitched and terrified, and Hermione could discern words amidst the wailing.

"No, don't take me there! Let me go! No!" Hermione grabbed Tate by the shoulders and tried to shake her awake. Tate reacted to her touch as though she had been scalded with boiling hot water. She recoiled and twisted away, screaming louder and begging for mercy from an invisible tormentor.

"Summere Kalliope Na—something something, WAKE UP!" Tate jerked into a sitting position and seized Hermione around the wrist in a bone-breaking grip. Hermione gasped in pain and surprise. Suddenly, her body failed to comply, and she grasped Tate's other hand with her own. An unnatural feeling flooded her mind, and she felt herself lift off of the ground, and dive down into what seemed like an endless tunnel of spiraling color, leaving the comforts of Hogwarts behind...

She felt her body slam into what had to be a chair. Gingerly, she opened her eyes. She was sitting in a classroom, but one she had never seen before. This classroom looked more like her grade school classrooms than any classroom she had ever seen at Hogwarts. All the students sat at tables, two to a table, with about ten tables in the classroom. The teacher stood at the front, and he was a rather fat, jolly sort of man, and he was going on about something called galvanic cells. There was a large blackboard behind him, and a poster on the wall with an apple on it that read "Treat Your Teacher - He Deserves it!" Glancing up at the chalkboard, Hermione read the words, Electrochemistry, Chapter 12. Looking around wildly for someone familiar, she recognized Tate sitting next to her. But Tate looked drastically different than she did now. She had no circles underneath her eyes, and less rigidity in her shoulders and back. She had buoyant color in her face, and looked as though she were properly fed. There were no scars on her hands. At that exact moment however, Hermione caught the faintest glimmer on the back of Tate's left hand. They were glamoured to look unscarred.

"Tate, what are we doing here?" Hermione was downright hysterical. "Where have you taken me?" Tate did not respond, nor did she even acknowledge Hermione's presence. In fact, not a single other kid in the class seemed to take notice of Hermione, not in the slightest.

'I must be in her memory, like a pensieve,' Hermione thought to herself. 'That's why no one can hear me! But how...how is that possible?'

A boy at the table in front of Tate turned around. He looked suspiciously evil, rather like Malfoy did - as though he had some horrible secret of yours, and was liable to spill it at anytime. The boy lowered his voice as he spoke to Tate.

"I know what you are, bitch." Hermione flinched at the word. "We all do." Tate didn't react at all, she merely waved him away with her hand, and continued listening to the teacher.

"I've seen where you go at night. I know what you're doing. And I've told people." His voice was rising quickly. Tate's face remained unreadable, but her eyes flashed with a sudden fury that Hermione shrank back from.

"I know you're a witch! Everyone does!" The boy was screaming now, and everyone in the class looked back to see what the commotion was. As if on cue from the boy, every single student began shouting horrible threats at Tate.

"Witch! Fucking witch! We're going to kill you!"

The teacher ran towards Tate, as if to shield her from the onslaught of hatred, but he was far too late. The boy who had originally mouthed off to Tate drew a pocketknife off of his key ring. Lightening fast, he lunged at Tate's face. She whipped her head around, causing him to miss her cheek and slash a sickle shaped mark behind her right ear. Her hand shot out and snatched his knife-wielding hand. With a sickening crack, she snapped his wrist, and he screamed like a wounded animal. The muscles in Tate's jaw clenched, and her eyes began to glow with a frightening rage.

The boy's laptop computer shuddered, smoked, and exploded in a fiery, orange blast. Beakers on the back lab tables began to explode in succession. The sickening, harsh smell of gas filled the room. Complete pandemonium ensued, as students screamed, ran in every direction, some even jumping out the first floor windows to the parking lot outside. Textbooks were flying and glass was shattering everywhere, and yet Tate remained seated where she was, arms folded, with that far away look in her eyes...she grimaced in pain suddenly, and clenched her right hand into a fist. Hermione could see blood squeezing through her knuckles...then she was up and running, Hermione magically pulled behind her. Tate burst through glass double doors into a parking lot filled with cars. She was running between lines of parked cars, breathing heavily in fear, when a boy stepped out in front of her. The two collided, and Tate stiffened and choked. A low, painful moan of defeat escaped her. Hermione looked on in horror, as the boy yanked something away from her chest - a pocket knife - and plunged it into her back. She went down to her knees, wheezing in pain, and the boy began to wave his arms and shout. "She's over here! Come quickly!"...and suddenly Hermione was lifted off of her feet, and was racing down that colorful expanse of tunnel again...

She landed next to Tate in a starkly lit, cold cell. Tate was dressed in a bright orange jumpsuit, and quite a large woman was standing over her.

"Stupid little white bitch. I'll teach you a lesson," she was shouting. She slapped Tate so hard across the face that Hermione winced. Blood trickled out the corner of her mouth. And still, Tate showed no response. The intimidating woman was further angered. She punched Tate full force, closed fist, in the jaw, and there was still no reaction.

"Fucking whore!"

"That's funny," said Tate silkily, "Aren't you the one in this cell who is under charges of solicitation?"

The woman was furious now, and she seized Tate by the arms to haul her up, probably to throw her against the bars of the cell. But as soon as she touched Tate's upper arms, it seemed she couldn't move them, nor let go. Her hands began to smoke. She yelped in pain, and recoiled back, gaping at her hands. They were burned bright red, and she looked at Tate with the utmost horror in her eyes. The woman began to scream for the guard.

The environments morphed again, and Hermione was standing in a pitch-black cell, if you could even call it that. It was more like a box, and she sensed Tate's presence next to her. Turning to Tate, she gasped in utter revulsion. Tate was standing in an incredibly awkward position. Her arms were high above her head, shackled to the top of the small box. The sleeve of her orange jumpsuit had fallen to her elbow, and Hermione saw what looked like a broken wrist, judging from the size of the swelling, as well as a red halo of blood seeping from under the thick, rusty handcuff. Her legs were shackled to either side, and her head hung in dazed exhaustion. She had a very swollen lip, cracked with blood that trickled down her chin, and both her eyes were blackened. There was a raised blue lump on her forehead, covered in dried blood. In Hermione's later years, she would often awaken from her sleep screaming in fear, Tate's empty, haunted eyes staring at her in dreams. Her breathing was heavy, labored, and Hermione would not have been surprised at all if it had simply stopped right then. However, that short terrible moment was broken by raised voices, followed by a loud thud from outside the box. Without warning, the door opened, and light stabbed Hermione's eyes, blinding them momentarily. But she would know that voice anywhere.

"Hello, my dear. We have been looking for you." A very hazy Albus Dumbledore stood in front of Tate, flanked by Professor McGonagall and Professor Snape. With a wave of Dumbledore's wand, the shackles opened, and Tate collapsed to the floor. Professor Snape was reaching for her...

Hermione was swept up into the whirling kaleidescope of color, and deposited right back into her room, cradling a violently trembling Tate. Hermione's heart was beating so fast that her breath became short. Tate was soaked through with sweat, and her shaking seemed unstoppable. But after about ten minutes, she began to calm, and Hermione smoothed her hair, tucked her back into bed.

She sat for a moment, rendered motionless by what she had just seen. Then she made, what she would later decide as, a very non-rational decision. She threw on her dressing gown, grabbed her wand, and stepped out the door.

"_Lumos,_" she muttered, and her wand tip blossomed with light. After perhaps a minute of walking, she found herself by Harry's bedside, shaking him awake. He awoke with a start, and peered at her with bewildered, sleepy eyes.

"I need to talk to you about something," she began, "and it simply can't wait until tomorrow."

----------

Harry Potter sat in front of the fireplace in the common room, letting the story Hermione had just recounted wash over him.

"So, let me get this straight...She touched your wrist, and some kind of cosmic connection sprang up between you two, and you found yourself in her subconscious?" Harry looked completely confounded. Hermione sighed in exasperation.

"No," she said firmly, "I was not in her subconscious. I was seeing her memories, her past. Either she was showing me, or I was inadvertently drawn into her last few memories before she came to Hogwarts."

"Jesus." Harry was dumbstruck. "That's quite terrifying."

"I agree," said Hermione.

"You'd never guess," he mused, "By the way she acts. You'd never imagine she was hurting in any way." He sounded impressed by her invulnerability.

"Now I at least know what happened with Malfoy, earlier today." Hermione regretted the words the instant they left her mouth. Harry sat up, as though struck by lightening, and looked at her with the expectancy of a child about to receive a lollypop. Hermione giggled at the excitement he was trying to hide, and figured her blunder was too far gone, she might as well tell him. So she explained to Harry what had transpired earlier that day between herself, Tate, and Draco. Harry was shaking in silent laughter by the time she had finished. She couldn't help laughing too.

"Finally, Draco has met his match. A girl who can lift him right off the floor, and straight into the wall." Then Harry looked serious. "Have you ever heard of anyone like this before?"

"Not in detail," admitted Hermione. "But I intend to read up on it." And on that note, they both went to bed.

----------

Hermione awoke that morning, and stretched languidly. She scrubbed her eyes with the back of her hand, and began to rise out of bed when she noticed Tate, already awake, looking at her somberly from her own bed. Tate was wearing a thin chemise, and, for the first time, Hermione noticed that Tate's arms were quite toned. Heavily toned…even cut. The muscles were unmistakable, even on the frame of a girl who had clearly lost a lot of weight in a very short time. Hermione smiled affectionately at her.

"Good morning," she said cheerfully. But Tate did not smile back.

"I know where you were last night." Hermione felt a guilty shiver up the back of her spine. Tate looked her, not with accusation, but with an expression Hermione could not comprehend.

"You were in here." Tate tapped the side of her head. "And I know what you saw." Hermione felt a wave of guilt. She began to attempt an explanation, but Tate held up a hand to silence her. For the first time ever, Hermione noticed a deep scar that ran diagonal across Tate's right palm, stretching from her pinky all the way to her forearm below the wrist. Their eyes met, and Hermione was surprised to see pleading.

"Please don't be afraid of me. You can't understand what happened, and I wish I could explain better." Hermione's heart broke for Tate, and she rushed to her side, and reached for Tate's scarred hand. But Tate hid her hand from Hermione's grasp.

"When emotions run high..." she explained in a very controlled voice, "...Things happen. I can't explain them. They just...happen and I have trouble controlling them." Hermione nodded. Most wizards tended to have similar problems, in intense situations.

She took a great breath, and exhaled softly, as though trying to blow her problems out with the air.

"I'm not nearly as tough as I look. All this you see," she indicated her virile arms, "Is just a shell. I figured that if I could be strong physically then I would be equally strong mentally, but...things didn't work out as I'd hoped. The only strength I derived from this was the ability to defend myself."

"But you are strong mentally, Tate," Hermione assured her, "Look at what you've come through. You aren't bitter or broken, in fact I'd venture that you are more alive now than you ever were before." Tate fixed her eyes on Hermione.

"Oh, I'm bitter, make no mistake. I hate those people for what they've done to me. I hate the fact that I was denied a normal existence." Her face darkened as she began to reveal snippets of her past. She paused, choosing her words carefully. "Since I was six, a man, Niels, came to teach me things. He taught me things I'd never learn in school. He gave me a wand, showed me how to use it. He taught me how to manipulate objects with spells. He told me there was magic inside me, that I was a witch." Another pause. "Then I turned sixteen. That's when...well, what you saw happened. I spent three weeks in jail."

Hermione shuddered in revulsion, recalling the terrible place that Tate was held in.

"I hate them, but I never wished harm on any of them, you know? Well, not _too_ much harm. But everyone's got their limit. I worked so hard at disciplining myself all those years that I never thought anyone would find mine. I'm serious, I did everything possible to keep myself in check - yoga, martial arts, relaxation, you name it, I tried it. I tried to stop feeling things, but I couldn't. I _can't_. I feel things all the time, and I lock them up in here," she tapped her head. "I want so badly to breathe freely, but I feel like nothing is ever going to make that possible."

Hermione put her hands on Tate's shoulders, and looked deep into her eyes. "Don't be afraid to feel, Tate. There's nothing wrong with it. I'm sorry that people made you go through that. But you need to push that aside and get on with your life. If you stop feeling altogether, you will regret it. I can promise you that." Tate nodded weakly.

"Don't tell anyone what you know. I don't want people to be afraid of me. I mean, you've got to look at it this way. They'd have – those particular muggles – done the exact same thing to you, or anyone else like us." Hermione grabbed Tate in a hug.

"I am not afraid of you, and no one else in Gryffindor house would be either, I swear it. Believe it or not, but there are weirder people here than you'll ever meet in a lifetime. You don't have to worry while you're here. This school will be the best place you've ever been to. I promise." Tate smiled weakly, but it was a smile anyways. Hermione felt much better about her strange new roommate, and the two chatted amiably as they dressed for breakfast.

----------

Once in the Great Hall, people from the other houses began to take notice of the new girl in great numbers. Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw buzzed with chatter, and heads kept twisting to stare at the newest addition to Gryffindor. Tate appeared to notice none of this, nor did she notice the anticipatory way in which Ron was staring at her. Hermione did, however, and was quite generous with her notorious death glares all through breakfast. She also noticed, with her eagle eye attention to detail, that Tate was simply pushing food around on her plate. This pricked Hermione's nerve, but given the tender circumstances in which she had found the girl the night before, Hermione chose not to remark upon it. Everyone was in a particularly antsy mood, with only two days of school left.

"Which classes we will have today?" asked Tate.

"Herbology with the Hufflepuffs, Care of Magical Creatures with the Slytherins, then lunch, then Transfiguration by ourselves, and Potions with the Slytherins." Tate looked exhausted just listening to Hermione recite the list.

"Just sit next to me, I'll make sure you understand what's going on," Hermione promised her. Tate smiled warmly, and took a small bite of food. Hermione grinned inwardly, feeling very confident that she would be able to assist Tate in any problems she might have.

----------

Tate shivered uncontrollable when the Gryffindors made their way outside. She wrapped her cloak around herself tightly, but couldn't stop her chattering teeth. She was shaking down to her bones, and all the Gryffindors, especially Parvati who had an extreme body temperature problem, felt pangs of sympathy. Tate, coming from Texas, had probably never seen snow in her life, and she appeared not to like it at all.

"If you're that cold, come on then!" Harry seized her arm and began to run down the path, his boots crunching on the freshly shoveled snow. Tate kept up with him and they flew down the path toward the greenhouse. Most unfortunately for Harry, Tate had built up so much speed in her haste to get near warmth that, as they came down the hill, neither could stop. Both careened right through the glass door. Hermione gasped in fear, and she and Ron ran toward the greenhouse.

Tate and Harry had stood by the time they arrived, brushing broken glass off of their robes. Harry had a small cut above his eye, and he was looking daggers at Tate.

"Sorry," she managed, and looked away.

Hermione pulled out her wand. "_Reparo_." The shattered glass flew back in the panes of the door. Then she tapped Harry's cut with her wand, and it healed instantly.

"See, no harm done," she consoled Tate. Tate shrugged, and they all gathered around the tables as Professor Sprout entered the greenhouse, dragging a large, blue plant behind her. It's stem culminated in a large, blue, pitcher-like appendage. Thick green vines with purple thorns extended from its stem, and occasionally it made growling noises.

"Who can tell me what this is?" Professor Sprout eyed the class hopefully. As usual, Hermione raised her hand, amid Susan Bones and Neville Longbottom. "Neville?"

"La planta del muerto." Professor Sprout smiled and nodded.

"Ten points to Gryffindor." Neville's ears turned pink with gratitude. However, the rest of the class shrank back in fear. "Now, now, not to worry. This particular specimen has been heavily sedated." She pointed to a small I.V. that was hooked into the thick stem of the plant. "Who can tell me what this plant does? Susan?"

"The plant grabs victims with it's thorned vines and squeezes them to death. It eats them through the little pitcher it has - the juices inside the pitcher digest the body."

"Excellent, ten points to Hufflepuff. Now, as I am hoping most of you read in your assigned reading last night..." she eyed the class suspiciously, "The liquid inside the plant's pitcher is extremely corrosive and poisonous, but it has very special uses in..." She looked expectantly at the students. "Yes, Hermione?"

"The pitcher fluid is used mainly for the demolition and smelting of abnormally hard metals, alloys, and stones. It can eat a hole through a single-carat diamond in 96 hours. And lately there has been speculation that it may cure some blood diseases when administered in miniscule doses."

"Take another ten points for Gryffindor." Hermione beamed. "Normally, we would be harvesting the pitcher's fluid, but under the circumstances, Dumbledore has decreed it too dangerous, considering your dragon hide gloves will provide you little protection. Instead, we will be studying it's vegetation habits, it's diet, and on Wednesday, we will study the effects of the pitcher fluid on several different specimens." Class continued in the fashion of boring observation.

----------

When it was time to go to Care of Magical Creatures, Tate nearly had a heart attack when she saw the creatures Hagrid had prepared for them that day. Three very large, green creatures were lumbering about in a paddock, breathing smoke and screaming in tones that rocketed from baritone to soprano in mere seconds. They resembled great lizards, covered in iridescent scales that reflected the bright snow and sunlight.

Tate began muttering softly to herself. "ü�ﬁÌ‡ Ï‡Ú˙! éÌ ÔÓÎÌ˚È Í�ÂÈÁ‡!" Hermione snapped to attention.

"What language is that?" Hermione loved new things, and the wheels in her mind were turning already. Tate could teach her a new language!

"R-Russian," Tate chattered, "And handy it is. No one really speaks it in Americ-ca, so it's always safe to start swearing in it-t-t." She grinned at Hermione, "Want to learn?" Hermione nodded her head vigorously.

"Do you know any other languages?" Hermione inquired.

"A few," Tate was being evasive again, and Hermione would have like to question her further, but they were approaching the gate. Hermione groaned as the Slytherins began muttering among themselves, pointing at Tate. Draco looked simply murderous.

"Well he looks a bit like the abominable snowman, doesn't he?" Tate indicated Draco, and Hermione and Ron burst into laughter. With the snow reflecting off his hair, in contrast with his horribly pale skin, Draco did look quite like a very angry snowman. Realizing he was being made fun of, Draco made a loud comment about the new "yankee mudblood". Tate's eyes flickered, and she lightly placed her hand on Hermione's lower back, taking care that no one would see, and began to speak in Russian. Hermione heard the Russian, but to her great amazement, she understood every word. It seemed as though her mind decided to briefly abandon even thinking in English in favor of Russian.

"ùÈ ÍÂ�˛ı‡, Ë?'Ë Ò˛?'‡," Tate shouted, "í‡Í Ë ıÓ˜ÂÚÒﬂ ‚Ô‡„Ú˙ ÚÂ·Â ÔÓ ˜‡ÈÌËÍÛ Í‡Í ÒÎÂ?'ÛÂÚ!" Hermione was dying in laughter, as well as stunned amazement. How was it that she suddenly understood Russian, a language she'd barely heard spoken before?

"á‡ÎÛÔ¿ÌÂˆ!" Hermione was shocked to hear her own voice joining in the roast. She had spoken perfect Russian. Tate grinned, and removed her hand from Hermione. She turned her gaze to Draco, and winked. He lifted his hand and drew his finger across his throat, smirked, and turned his head. The class continued with no further interruptions.

----------

Lunch was another interesting moment. Three large barn owls zoomed through the window of the Great Hall, carrying between them quite a large parcel. It was dropped right in front of Tate. She stared at the package, wide-eyed, and exhaled softly.

"Hope that's Brad Pitt, wrapped in a box, just like I asked my mom to send." Then she wrapped her arms around the parcel, and walked briskly out of the Great Hall, passing Pansy Parkinson as she went. Pansy looked at her with utmost hatred and stuck out a foot to trip her. Hermione half rose in her chair, and nearly shouted at Tate to be careful, but Tate lightly leapt over Pansy's outstretched foot, and smiled sweetly at her. Then she skipped lightly in a circle, and leaned toward Pansy. Hermione was too far away to actually hear the exchange, but she strained anyways. Tate, by this time, had deadpanned and spoken a few words to Pansy, before moving swiftly through the large double doors. Pansy stood, as though in shock, her mouth wide open. Then she promptly turned around and slapped Crabbe, who was seated directly behind her, as hard as she could. She glared at him, flounced away and sat at the other end of the Slytherin table, amid the heinous glares of her fellow Slytherins.

----------

After lunch, Transfiguration rolled around. Professor McGonagall was tight-lipped and severe, as usual.

"Today," she announced, "We will be tackling a very difficult area of magic. The transfiguration of a very small object into something rather large. This particular section will span at least a month's worth of class. Now, seeing as though this will be your last class before the holidays, I am going to allow you to turn the small object into whatever you wish. But it must be significantly larger, in its finished state. A tadpole to a toad simply won't do, Longbottom." Neville shrank in his chair, but nodded.

"Now then. You will all find a button on your desk. Begin now."

Hermione racked her brain...with unlimited options, she found herself unable to decide what to do. There were so many things? What would be a sufficient test of her talent? Images flooded her mind...a dragon? No way, that was far too large, not to mention dangerous. A car? Still too big. She settled on her mother's piano, and proceeded to begin the spell. A puff of yellow smoke later, and she was looking at a large, very beautiful grand piano, reminiscent of the one her mother kept at home.

"Very good, Ms. Granger!" Professor McGonagall rewarded her with a proud smile. Hermione grinned, her ears turning pink. All around the room, buttons were being turned into larger objects, but nothing quite as impressive as Hermione's piano. Ron transfigured his button into a six-foot tall boot, and Professor McGonagall shook her head in irritation.

"How many times have you come across a boot this size," she scolded him, "It wouldn't even fit a giant!"

Harry turned his button into a bright pink sofa. Unfortunately, it still bore the button holes. Hermione laughed, and told him how to fix it, earning herself a sharp glance from McGonagall.

In her concentration and subsequent amusement, Hermione realized that she had forgotten all about Tate. She looked over, worried, and saw Tate absentmindedly fingering her dark, shiny wand. There was a look of deep meditation on her face, and Hermione wondered if it were simply masking her confusion. She began to move toward Tate, ready to assist her, when Tate raised her wand. There was a bang like a gun, and an abnormally large penguin stood where the button once lay. Hermione stopped short, and stared in mute wonder. The entire class looked up in bewilderment. Laughter erupted, in multitudes. The oversized penguin, which stood at an even five and a half feet, began to waddle around and squawk agreeably. Tate grinned excitedly, and jumped up to play with the penguin. Dean and Seamus were laughing so, that Hermione thought they might have trouble breathing soon. Professor McGonagall strode over to Tate, bent her head, and exchanged a few words with her. When she stood, she had the faintest twitch of a smile on her face. She stopped in front of Hermione, looked down at her, and said,

"Well done, Ms. Granger. She is adjusting." Hermione glowed with joy. Professor McGonagall's compliments meant more to her than anything any other teacher in the world could have said. Her euphoria was interrupted by the soft music that broke through the loud ruckus in the classroom. Tate had situated herself at Hermione's piano, and had begun to play. The music was nice, and Hermione heard a hint of familiarity in it, though she couldn't place it. The penguin danced around, much to the delight of the female students.

Dean jumped to attention.

"I know that song!" he shouted in excitement. He ran over to join Tate at the piano, and began to sing. Hermione grinned - Dean was recognized as perhaps the best musician Hogwarts had to offer. She propped her head on her hand, and smiled at Dean.

"Pretty eyed...pirate smile...you'll marry a music man..."

Hermione's memory snapped, and she recognized the song.

"And now she's in me...Always with me...Tiny Dancer in my hand..."

The song provided everyone with a legitimate reason to ignore the assigned work, and transfiguration was pleasantly forgotten. Even Professor McGonagall was not totally impervious to the effect of the music. The only thing that could break the euphoria was the sound of the bell, ringing shrilly, signaling their descent into hell, also known as Potions. Hermione latched herself onto Tate, preparing to shield her from the horror that would be undoubtedly wrought upon the Gryffindor six years by Professor Snape. She had to kick the door to the Transfiguration classroom shut, so the penguin wouldn't follow them out. It was a well known fact that Snape hated all Gryffindors, and Hermione didn't think it would be a good thing if Tate were to shatter the cauldrons and beakers in the Potions classroom. Much to her surprise, Tate squeezed her hand, and looked her in the eye.

"We'll be fine." Hermione stared at her in confusion. "The penguin will protect us." Hermione spluttered in pleasant annoyance, and whisked her off to the most dreaded class in Gryffindor history.

The Gryffindors filed into Potions and took their respective seats. Tate was left standing next to a seated Hermione, so she perched herself on the edge of the table. Hermione looked at the Slytherins, some of whom were twisted around in their seats, staring at the new girl. Pansy Parkinson and Blaise Zabini were glaring at Tate, shooting invisible arrows at her. Lazily, Tate rotated her gaze around the room, and her eyes locked upon Pansy. Pansy's ice blue stare faltered for a moment. Hermione glanced at Tate, who sat stock still, her eyes unblinking, as though in a trance.

_Put your hand on her arm_, said a tiny voice in her head. Without even wondering why, Hermione lifted her hand and rested it on Tate's shoulder, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. She too turned her eyes toward Pansy. Pansy flinched in her seat, as though she had been shocked. Her blue eyes dropped to the floor, and she swiveled to the front, as the slamming dungeon door signaled Snape's entrance to the classroom. He strode, purposefully, to the front of the classroom where he turned to face his class. His cold black eyes came to rest on Tate. She held his gaze, unwavering, and nodded at him, ever so slightly. He sneered at her, but Hermione didn't miss the fleeting look of recognition and acknowledgment glittering in Snape's black eyes. Snape's eyes glanced at Hermione, whose hand still rested on Tate's shoulder. His gaze hardened.

"Please remove your hand from your classmate, Ms. Granger. Save the public affection for your free time." Giggles erupted from the Slytherin side of the class. Hermione very reluctantly removed her hand from Tate's shoulder. She felt a sense of warmth and security emanating from Tate, whenever near her, and she was beginning to question this odd sensation. She felt something along the same lines when she touched Harry, but she knew there was a significant difference in that. She felt love and passion for Harry. But she felt a slight magnetic connection between herself and Tate. Her curiosity piqued and she resolved to find out what the hell was going on.

"Today we will brew a potion not listed in your books," Snape said. A universal groan sounded from the class. "And if you are not prepared," Snape continued, "Then it will be very embarrassing for those who will serve as test subjects." The color drained from Neville's face, and he shrank in his seat. "The potion you will brew is the Feline Lingua Potion. If brewed correctly, the potion will enable you to understand and converse with any feline species for a maximum of two minutes. If brewed incorrectly, the feline will likely attack you." He looked around at the class, an evil sneer curling his lip. "As we have a new Gryffindor, the partnerships will now be equal. Mr. Longbotton will be removed from his original partnership of Ms. Patil and Mr. Thomas, and will join the new student."

"But Professor Snape! Shouldn't she -"

"Silence, Granger!" He glared in fury at Hermione. "This is not open for question! BEGIN!"

Hermione glanced helplessly at Tate, who left to join Neville. She turned to her own partner, Lavender, who was looking at her with wide eyes.

"This is going to be a ruddy mess," said Lavender, shaking her head. Hermione said nothing, but silently agreed.

Forty-five minutes later, Hermione was stirring the cauldron, checking her watch every few seconds.

"Hand me the catnip," she said to Lavender, who passed her a bowl filled with the pungent herb. Hermione tipped the contents into the frothing concoction, which hissed and turned a pleasant shade of lilac. She glanced fearfully toward Neville and Tate, who were both staring into their own cauldron. Neville looked slightly green.

"Time!" shouted Snape. Everyone put down their stirring spoons. Professor Snape pulled the cover off of a large cage. Two orange kittens blinked at the class. Snape opened the small cage door, but the kittens ignored it and remained inside.

"Potter and Finnigan! We will test your potion first." Harry and Seamus ladled their potion into two small teacups and approached the front of the class. Harry pinched his nose and threw back his potion, which tasted remarkably like dirty socks. He coughed and shook his head. Then he eyed the kittens cautiously.

"Strange this, isn't it?" Harry blinked. The larger kitten, who had a thick Scottish accent, was peering at him through open cage door. Harry smiled, and said,

"Yes, I must agree. This professor, he's an insufferable git. Springing up pop quizzes and what not." The kitten laughed amicably.

"That wee man keeps his office a bloody mess, he does! And he drinks, constantly! I asked him just the other day for a pint, and he ignored me, th'dirty bugger." Seamus and Harry began to hold their sides in laughter.

The other kitten piped up. "Now, now Tommy, yeh just don't like him because he didn't want to pet yeh. He likes me fine, he does."

"That's because ya've got a face like a wee hard disease, and misery loves company!"

"I'll have yeh for that one!" The kittens attacked each other furiously, shouting various insults - however, Harry and Seamus did not get to hear half of the amusing swear words because the potion wore off, and there was only exasperated mewling to be heard. Snape was not pleased.

"Thought you'd hack off the kittens, did you? Make it difficult for anyone else to enjoy the effects? Ten points from Gryffindor." Seamus snorted indignantly, causing another five to be taken. He and Harry returned to their seats in fury.

"Ms. Blackeberry and Longbottom!" Neville, quite terrified, slunk to the front of the room. Tate came behind him, two cups of their potion in each hand. Neville glanced at Snape with trembling fear, accepted a cup from Tate, and they both took a draft. Neville choked on the taste of sour lemons, Tate kept her grimace as minimal as possible. They looked at each other and turned to the cage. The kittens were still boxing with each other, but the presence of Neville and Tate stopped them.

The kittens regarded the two students carefully for a moment. Then they shot through the open cage door, and leapt at them, snarling viciously. Neville squeaked in terror and stumbled backwards, knocking over Professor Snape's swiveling chair. The larger kitten clung to his chest with its claws, screeching. The other kitten had attached itself to Tate, and weaseled its way into her collar, its orange tail disappearing into her robes. She reached for it blindly, shrieking madly as the kitten scratched and bit her. Pansy and Blaise were howling in laughter, pounding on their desktop. The Gryffindors were horrified, but unshocked - there was nothing else to expect from such a pairing. Neville batted wildly at the kitten on his chest, but it refused to let go, and bit him merciless when he attempted to grab it. Tate seized the kitten on his chest, and Neville plunged his hand down the back of her collar and groped for the hissing lump that was situated near her shoulder. He yanked his hand back out, grasping the kitten tightly. Tate, her hands securely locked around her own kitten, stood and brought it up to her face.

"Now, see here cat!" she shouted, "That's not nice at all! My friend and I don't appreciate unwarranted attacks!"

The cat struggled valiantly. "Well, yeh shouldn't go drinking essence of mouse then!" Tate glared at the cat.

"Do I look like a mouse to you?"

"Well, come to think of it, no. But he does!" And the kitten fixed a hungry eye on Neville.

Neville was furious. "A mouse, am I!" he shrieked at the kitten. "Bet you couldn't catch a real one if you tried, pipsqueak!" The cat hissed angrily.

"Aye, come over here yeh divvy an' let me take a pop at'ya!" Neville lunged angrily toward the kitten, but Tate put a foot in his shoulder, and shook her head. Luckily for them, the potion wore off at this point, and the kittens became significantly more docile. Docile enough, at least, to allow the two to put them back in the cage. Snape had a wicked smile twitching at the corners of his mouth, and Tate shot him an annoyed glare.

"That'll be another ten points from your house today." Snape's quill scratched scathingly in his book. She and Neville returned to their desks, out of breath.

"It's going to be an interesting year," Tate whispered to him. He groaned, and looked ill.

----------

Harry stared into his teacup, languidly turning it around and around in his hands.

"Treacle fudge, Harry?" Hagrid offered him a large plate. Harry smiled and shook his head. Hagrid selected a chunk of fudge the size of Harry's shoe for himself, and popped it into his mouth.

"So what's been botherin' yeh, Harry? I can tell when yeh're out of sorts, and I think it's safe to say yeh are now." Harry sighed deeply, and looked into the massive face of his oldest friend.

"That new girl, Tate," Hagrid nodded, "Theres something weird about her. Something I don't think I like much. She's hiding something...something dodgy."

Hagrid shook his head. "Yeh don' know what yer talking about, Harry. That young lass and yer Hermione are goin' tah -" He stopped himself short, winced, and threw his hands in the air. "I always do that! Why can't I keep my big mouth shut?"

Harry smiled to himself. "No, Hagrid, please go on. I'd really like to know why Hermione is suddenly relevant in connection with a stranger, and a dodgy one at that."

Hagrid's face went bright red. "Now, see here Harry, there's no reason in yeh distrustin' the girl. She means no harm."

"How do you know, Hagrid?"

Hagrid sighed deeply, thinking very hard about his reply. "Because Dumbledore trusts her, he does. I'd follow tha' man into Hell an' back. She's a bit like him, she is. So's our Hermione." Harry looked at him in confusion.

"In what way are they alike, Hagrid?"

Hagrid grinned at him. "Oh no, yeh don't, Harry. Yeh won't be gettin' any more out of me about that. Jus' trust me, all right?" Harry gave up, and nodded. Hagrid did present a good point, but now Harry was more confused than ever. What did Hermione have to do with Tate, beyond being her roommate and friend?

----------

In the short break before dinner, Draco Malfoy sat in the library. His Arithmancy homework lay in front of him, finished and perfected. He loved Arithmancy to no end - it was so logical and straightforward. There were no difficult intangibles and hypothetical ideas one had to deal with. He mentally thanked Granger for supplying him with this nugget of wisdom, even though he had been eavesdropping when he heard her discussing her preference to Potter and Weasley. Eavesdropping on Hermione had become one of Draco's favorite hobbies. He always seemed to walk away with a new truth, or ideal.

_Not only clever, but a tasty dish to boot._ Draco smiled to himself, ever mindful of his taste for the clever and quick-witted. It was a damn shame that Hermione seemed to prefer the hero instead of the villain. Draco swept up his Arithmancy sheet and carefully tucked it into his bookbag. His homework done, he stealthily leaned back in his chair and pulled a small, ragged book from the pocket of his black velvet cloak. Smiling at his own ingenuity, he opened the book and began to read.

_Innumerable charms can be woven into the namesake of a single person. Logically enough, the surname cannot be charmed because it is carried on throughout the family. Charms and spells cannot be cast on names that link the person being charmed to the dead. However, any name beyond the family surname is applicable. Legally, a child may possess up to one hundred names (excluding the surname), and each name may be charmed up to six times. Any more, and the child in question would implode due to overloading of the biological nerve circuits. The charms may vary from - _

A pair of strong hands wrapped around Draco's neck. His chair was forced backwards, and he found himself staring at the ceiling. Blindly, he reached for his wand with one hand, and lashed out at his assailant with the other. He fumbled around in his cloak pocket, seized his wand, and prepared to attack when he found his chair upright, and the hands from his throat gone. Tate was sitting on the table, grinning at him.

"Fuckin' hell! You can't do that to me, you silly bint! I might've killed you!" Tate laughed heartily. She turned his eyes up to lock with his, which he was quickly coming to recognize as her trademark - piercing eye contact. Her eyes gave him the impression she could see into his soul. This was something he was not quite fond of.

"Sorry. But you've got to admit, I win the sneak up game tonight!" Draco furrowed his brow and glared at her with what he hoped looked like pure fury. "Oh, go on, Malfoy. It's just a joke." She swung her legs over the table, narrowly missing his head, and settled herself into a chair across from him. She pulled quite a large book from her rucksack and dropped it heavily on the table. She opened it, and dust coughed angrily from the yellowed pages. Draco however, having finished his homework, had other ideas.

"Tell me about America," he asked. Tate looked up at him in surprise.

"I thought you British folk hate America. Think it's a joke, and all that."

Draco shrugged. "I myself have never met an American. Easy to hate something you've never come in contact with. I've been taught to believe they're stupid and impulsive. Prove me wrong." Tate narrowed her eyes at him, as was her habit of doing when she was trying to decide if someone was winding her up or not. Eventually she sighed in compliance, satisfied that Draco was truly curious and not malicious.

"America is amazing," she said breathlessly, "I can't explain it very well, through words...one has to see it to appreciate it. I never would've thought this before...but now that I'm away from it, I'm missing the scenery. Everything is shiny and new. But then again, I guess it's a double edged sword, like any other country. Got lots of problems and poverty and hate. And society seems to base a bit too much personal worth on physical appearance. Notice how America worships film stars as gods."

Draco was unsatisfied. "What about your family?"

Tate looked stricken. She took a breath, opened her mouth to speak, and then shut it immediately. "Quid pro quo, Draco. Tell me about your family."

_Tell me about your family._ Her words echoed in his head. His eyes darkened from pale gray to charcoal. His throat went dry. In a flash, Tate, sensing his discomfort, had risen from her chair, slid across the table, and was at his side. Her hand went to rest comfortingly on Draco's shoulder.

"Look buddy, I didn't mean to pry or upset you. I just -" Draco cut her off shortly.

"I have no family. Not anymore." He raised his eyes to Tate's, fearful of what he might see. To his great relief, there was no pity in her eyes. Only compassion. He continued, unabated, with his story. When he looked back on this moment, he would never be able to fully explain what had made him confide in a stranger. He _never _told secrets.

"After fourth year, my father took me into the inner circle of the Death Eaters. It had been planned since I was born. I was always going to join Voldemort's legions, I had been bred for it. But then I saw...what it entailed...the torture and the murder. But it never bothered me until I actually saw it happen. I watched my father torture this poor wizard - he couldn't have been more than twenty. It was obvious he didn't know anything substantial. But my father continued it, smiling the whole time. He didn't even have to perform the Killing Curse. Poor bloke died from sheer pain and exhaustion. His mind shut down on him." Tate drew in a breath, her revulsion plain as day. "I did not even have to tell him I did not want to join up. He knew, just by looking at my face. My whole family disowned me. Snape took me in. That's where I've been since. A year and half, next February." Draco was shocked into silence. Never before had he revealed anything about his recent past to anyone. Not to Crabbe, Goyle. No one. And now, of all people, he had confided in a Gryffindor. He was immediately scared, and tensed throughout his body. Tate realized his anxiety and seized his arms.

"Your secret is safe." Despite himself, Draco found himself overtly comforted by her promise. Tate went to hug him, but he stiffened and pulled away.

"Don't be a cold bastard," she said warningly, "Since you already left 'em behind." This seemed to make sense to Draco, and he was more compliant when she forced him into a hug. This sensation shocked and confused him - he couldn't ever remember being hugged by anyone...ever. It was strangely comforting, and he buried his head in her shoulder, and she wrapped her arms around him, patting his back slightly awkwardly.

"See," she murmured, "Not so bad." Draco locked his arms around her back, and sighed deeply into the crook of her neck. For a split second, he thought he felt her shudder, but quickly pushed this thought aside. Right now, there was only Tate, and she was as solid and strong as a brick wall. Draco felt a great splash of relief rocket through his veins, warming him from the inside out. A weight was lifted off of his shoulders, even if only for a split second. Physical contact couldn't heal everything, especially emotional scars as deep as Draco's, and the weight resettled itself, pulling like an anchor at his heart. He regained his composure after perhaps two or three minutes, and the two returned to studying. There were no more awkward silences. Each felt comfortable in the presence of the other.

----------

Every student at Hogwarts was delighted, as tomorrow was the Yule Ball. All through dinner, Ron stared at Tate, fascination in his eyes. She never seemed to glance up from her food, he thought. She had only spoken once, and that had been at the beginning of the meal. She had leaned over Dean Thomas, with whom she had become quite friendly, and they had conversed, briefly, in whispers. Ron continued to gaze at her thoughtfully, when he was suddenly aware of a sharp elbow in his ribs.

"Ow! Harry, what was that for?" Ron was very indignant.

"You are blatantly staring at her! She can see you!" Harry looked pointedly at Tate, and Ron's gaze followed. Her head was up - she was looking at him. Their eyes met briefly, before Ron caught a flash of silver.

WHAM!

A spoonful of mashed potatoes landed smack dab in the middle of Ron's forehead. Laughter erupted all around him, as he shouted in surprise and glared around for the culprit. He was shocked to see Tate, her eyes glittering, waving a spoon at him. She grinned and winked. Ron spluttered with mock indignity. He snatched up his spoon, but before he could reach the kidney pudding, he had been hit with another mashed potato bomb, this time in the eyes. He scrubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, and prepared to load his own ammo when he noticed Tate had mashed potatoes in her hair.

_I didn't shoot her_, he thought. Looking around wildly he saw Dumbledore tuck a spoon into his robe. Tate was laughing, _really_ laughing, her head thrown back, hands banging on the table, a look of pure bliss on her face. Hermione watched her intently, intrigued by this incredible show of emotion. She could actually _feel_ the laughter coming off of Tate, like waves of energy. Her train of thought was interrupted, however, when Harry pelted her with a handful of cheesecake. Startled, then furious, she dug her hand in the ice cream bowl (a huge mistake, as her hand immediately went numb), and, catching him by the neck of his cloak, smeared it over his neck and hair. The situation got out of control when Ron sent a spoonful of tripe toward Ginny, who ducked. The tripe hit a very familiar silvery blonde head, which spun around wildly. Ron waved his spoon at Draco.

"Thought you'd like some, Malfoy! It's delicious!" The Slytherin table exploded in fury. Food filled the air, hexes as well. Every table was involved, and even the professors were taking hits. Hermione climbed under the table with Tate and Ginny, and they began pelting people with food from their spoons. Hermione was tickled at the agility and accuracy Tate possessed. Every single gob of food that was released from Tate's spoon managed to hit a new target directly in the eyes. She hadn't seen her miss once.

"Watch out," yelled Ginny, over the din, "Malfoy is going for Ron!" Sure enough, Malfoy was stampeding towards the unknowing redhead. A scoop of mashed potatoes, dispatched by Tate, hit him square in the eyes. He paused, enraged, and then another scoop was launched into his neck. Shaking with fury, he dropped to the ground, attempting to avoid any further assaults. A third shot hit him in the nose. Hermione closed her eyes on this scene and huddled on the ground, dissolving in peals of laughter. She laughed until her sides ached, and Ginny joined her in hysterical fits of giggles. Tate was not laughing, but grinning. She saluted Malfoy, who had wiped the potatoes out of his eyes, and he glared at her in a manner Ginny and Hermione identified as hatred. But to Tate, it was playful.

"He'll have to redo his make-up," joked Ginny, and Hermione lapsed into yet another laughing fit. It was only when she heard Dumbledore's voice, magically magnified, that she desisted.

"Students will cease this food war immediately!" Everyone did exactly as they were told - no one questioned Dumbledore. He sighed, exhaustedly.

"This is terrible, terrible behavior for students to exhibit. Some of you are about to graduate. Perhaps it may benefit you, if you begin to act like adults. Act like children, and we will treat you like children." Everyone nodded, mutely.

"Now, may I please see Ms. Blackeberry, Ms. Granger, Mr. Weasley, and Mr. Potter. Follow me into my chambers." Hermione blanched - Dumbledore knew they had started the fight. Great. Now she was going to get detention. She gritted her teeth and followed Harry up toward the door Dumbledore had exited through. Tate went through first, then Ron, followed by Harry and Hermione. They entered a warm, spacious room, full of mahogany furniture. A fire burned brightly in a large fireplace. Dumbledore was waiting there, sizing them up from across a magnificent table. Hermione opened her mouth to speak, but Dumbledore cut her off.

"As you were the first four involved in the fight, you deserve punishment. As you, Mr. Weasley, are the cause of the fight spreading from Gryffindor to the entire school, you deserve double punishment." Ron looked absolutely petrified. "And you, Ms. Blackeberry, as the sole instigator of the fight in question, you deserve triple punishment." Tate was expressionless. Ron opened his mouth to contest this, but a sharp look from Dumbledore silenced him immediately.

"I also think it fitting that you should be punished in the same manner you chose to get into trouble with." With a wave of his wand, he shot a large, creamy chocolate cake at Harry. Hermione was hit with Baked Alaska. Ron got vanilla custard in the face, and quite an oversized jelly doughnut in the chest. Tate got the worst however, with a Crème Brulee that covered her hair like a net, a lemon meringue pie to the shoulder. Dumbledore closed his eyes briefly, as if in deep thought, then smiled and waved his wand at Tate. A Rasberry Bombe hit her square in the chest, steam rising from the frozen sherbet and ice cream. Hermione almost had lockjaw from keeping her laughter to herself. Harry was shaking with suppressed laughter next to her; Ron stood stock still, his face purple with exertion. Tate remained straight-faced.

"Very well," sighed Dumbledore, clearly pleased with his work, "You may go." The four turned and exited quickly, finding an empty Great Hall. Ron felt someone sweep over his head, and turned to see Tate, wiping the vanilla custard off of his head.

"Thanks," he said, meekly.

"No, thank you," she replied, and proceeded to lick the vanilla custard off of her fingers. Ron howled with laughter and shouted that everyone must stop. Surprised, everyone did and looked at him.

"I'm still hungry," he announced, "So I want to see which one of you has got the best desserts on them." Harry roared with laughter, and nodded his head vigorously in agreement.

"Well, what've you got?" he asked Ron.

"Vanilla custard and jelly doughtnut." Harry grimaced.

"Yech! I hate both! Always have. What's Tate got?"

"Dunno, ask her yourself. Better ask Hermione too, before they both eat it all." And sure enough, Tate and Hermione were deeply engrossed in the dessert that had splattered across the others face and neck. Ron and Harry suddenly found themselves unwillingly to interrupt this wee spectacle. They both stared, openmouthed, at the two girls.

"Are they even bothering to use their hands anymore?" Ron asked very quietly.

"No, that was definitely a tongue I just saw."

"Oh...Wow..." Neither boy could look away. They stared, hearing and seeing nothing else.

"What're you boys gawking on about?" asked Hermione, "Have some of this Crème Brulee, it's excellent!" But neither could move. Finally, exasperated with their male comrades, Hermione and Tate left the empty Hall. This seemed to restore leg movement to Ron and Harry.

"What the hell did we just see?" asked Ron. Harry shrugged, at a loss for words. They fled after the two girls.

----------

The Common Room was abuzz with excitement. Hermione and Ginny sat off in the corner, among Harry, Ron, and Tate, excitedly discussing the upcoming Yule Ball. Ginny was going with Seamus, and Hermione, of course, was going with Harry. Ron looked absolutely dismal, and everyone knew he was trying very hard to get over his shyness. He very badly wanted to ask Tate to the Ball. Tate was listening to Harry, who was explaining the basics of Quidditch.

"My dress robes are taffeta, and emerald green," Ginny was saying.

"Oh, how perfect Ginny! That'll look wonderful with your hair!"

"What color are yours, Hermione? Please tell me you aren't going to be frugal and wear the exact same robes you did fourth year?" Hermione bristled. She was far too tall for those now! Everyone knew that, as she had chosen to wear those for the fifth year ball - a mistake she would never forgive herself for.

"Of course not, Ginny. My robes are - " She stopped, realizing that Ginny's attention was now directed elsewhere. Ron, Ginny, and Harry were staring wide-eyed at Tate, who was looking back at them with a bemused expression on her face.

"Ok. What did I miss," Hermione asked. Ginny turned toward her.

"She has a tattoo!" Hermione was unfazed.

"I know. So?"

"Well, no one else has any tattoos! You have to be eighteen to get them, don't you?" Ginny looked around for agreement. Tate looked at Hermione and rolled her eyes, affably.

"So..." began Tate, "Where is this fabled tattoo you claim to have seen?" Hermione giggled. Ron glared at her briefly, and then seized Tate's left wrist, drawing back the sleeve, revealing a tiny black Kanji symbol.

"Aha!" he shouted gleefully, "Right there!" Tate grinned, and allowed Ron to keep holding onto her wrist. He seemed to take notice of this and reddened...but he did not let go.

"That?" she said innocently, "That's not a tattoo...it's merely a...a doodle I did during Divination when I was bored!" She smiled quite innocently.

"Fat chance," he said, "Since we didn't have Divination today." He spit on his hand, and attempted to wipe off her "doodle". Ginny gasped scandalously at her brother. "See! It's real!" Ron looked quite triumphant.

"Oh fine," said Tate, "You've found me out." Hermione drew in her breath as she noticed a fine white scar tracking vertically through her wrist. Ron saw this too, but pretended not to notice.

"It means justice, and I got it when I was 14."

"Do'ya have anymore?" Ron was rather intrigued, by the look on his face.

"Lots more," said Tate, "But we'd have to be a lot closer if I were to show you the others." She grinned wickedly, and Hermione could not control herself at the site of Ron's hilarious expression. She had to excuse herself to the other side of the room, where she startled Dean and Seamus by collapsing on the ground in laughter. Ginny and Harry quickly joined her, as they had noticed the strange purple color Ron had turned. It was a crucial moment for Mr. Ronald Weasley. It was now or never, if he wanted to take the American to the Yule Ball.

----------

Hermione excused herself from the common room to the library at about nine. People had begun to filter out of the library, and it was the perfect time for quiet studying. She pushed through the double doors, and entered. The library was quiet, and dimly lit. The bookshelves, standing as high as thirty feet, beckoned to Hermione, willing her to learn all their secrets. She smiled, despite herself, and walked purposefully toward the back, winding her way between the extensive shelving. When she was between the Fungi and Magical Spores section, a small brown mouse scampered through her legs, and down the small corridor between the shelves. Hermione, though not afraid of mice, was taken off guard, and shrieked slightly. She regained her composure, smoothed her hair, and continued toward her favorite table. She tossed her bookbag onto the gleaming wood surface, and turned to find the book she had been thinking about all day. She passed several shelves, and finally turned left into the section entitled Dreams. Drawing her hand across several bookspines to remove the dust, she peered at the titles, row after row. _Dream Connection_ caught her eye, and she removed it and prepared to return to her table when she heard voices on the other side. Both were quite familiar. But it couldn't be... She marched around the shelves, and stopped short when she came into view of another table. Tate and Draco sat together, poring over two very large books, and were looking at her in utter surprise.

----------

Severus Snape drew up a weathered hand, and rubbed his eyes viciously. His sight was becoming less and less reliable as of late, and it annoyed him greatly. He grasped a small bottle from his private storage, and squeezed a few drops into each of his eyes. His vision began to refocus. He returned to the steaming cauldron he had been stewing for the past three hours. It had gone from vibrant bright red to a deep crimson. The acid green bubbles still frothed and popped, but he paid them no mind. He dipped a finger into the potion and tasted it. A chilling sensation swept through his body. No, it was not done yet. The desired sensation needed to be much colder. Fire-Proofing potions were designed to temporarily replace the blood in the drinkers veins with an icy substance. The skin cells were also affected, taking on a hexagonal ice crystal lattice in contrast to it's usual organic molecular structure. Fire would be repelled, even in overwhelming amounts. This potion however, was of Snape's own design. He had taken a standard Fire-Proofing Potion, which usually lasted only ten minutes, and manipulated it to span a time frame of a full thirty minutes. He only hoped that the initial cold shock would not incapacitate the two people intended to take the potion.

He reflected back on the scene he had witnessed earlier today in his own classroom. Draco Malfoy, the most judgemental, intolerant child he knew, interacting affably with the newest addition to the Gryffindor House. It confounded him to no end.

Ever since early august, two summers past, he had come to look upon Draco as his own son. He had so many redeeming qualities Snape respected - cleverness, determination, ambition. He was slowly beginning to develop his own honor and morale, just as Snape had done when he had left the death eaters behind. His new life was not an easy one to carve out - it had taken incredible amounts of time, patience, and soul reflection. Turning one's back on the life seemingly intended was not an easy task. Snape sighed heavily. His mind briefly settled on an image of a sumo wrestler in a frilly pink tutu.

_What the f--..._ He shook his head fervently, clearing his mind of the disturbing scenario, and turned his attention back to the churning potion. It popped violently, and some of the steaming liquid hit him in the eye. He jerked back in pain, swearing profusely. He wiped at the weeping eye roughly with the sleeve of his coarse robes, thinking the pain served him right. Sumo wrestlers...what had prompted that?

----------

Hermione felt as though her feet had been nailed to the ground. She stared at the two people, openmouthed. Both regarded her soberly, the once evident surprise on their faces had disappeared almost immediately.

"Since when are you two friendly?" Hermione's shock had turned to irritation. Malfoy, being the sworn enemy of Gryffindor, had no business playing false niceties to a girl who had no idea of the havoc he could wreak. And Tate! Tate was consorting with the enemy! Hermione's irritation evolved into fury.

"None of your business, Granger. Now, do scamper along and leave us be." Malfoy sneered at her, his eyes cold enough to freeze a fire salamander solid. Tate kicked him under the table.

"Whats up, Hermione? Sit down with us." Tate gestured to the chair next to her. Hermione glared at her.

"Take a running jump, both of you," she spat, and spun on her heel, stomping back the way she came. She reached her own table and threw _Dream Connection_ onto the tabletop with much more force than necessary, causing several of the warning fireflies to flicker angrily. Hermione glared at them and shook her fist. Those damned noise sensors went off if you sneezed too loud. But they at least kept couples from snogging in the dark library nooks in the evenings. The fireflies glowed red if this occurred, and only in Madame Pince's private office. That vulture-like crone took no greater pleasure than busting two hormone crazy teenagers mid make-out. Hermione settled herself in a chair and bent her head over her Arithmancy book. She redirected all her anger into her studies, and very soon she found herself pleasantly immersed. However, her work euphoria did not last long. Tate seemed to appear at the precise moment Hermione began to really get going. This did not improve her mood.

"Yes?" she snapped impatiently. Tate looked at her reproachfully, and stretched her hand toward Hermione's book, lifting up the cover and reading the title.

"_Advanced Arithmancy for the Serious Student_. Sounds awful."

"It is most certainly not awful! It's wonderful and fascinating and -" Tate placed a hand on top of Hermione's Arithmancy worksheet and drew it in front of herself. Her eyes scanned the sheet, and Hermione saw pure excitement glowing in her eyes.

"Remind me to sign up for that class."

Hermione sniffed. "Remind yourself." Tate's shoulders sagged in defeat. She settled herself into the chair across from Hermione, folding her hands in front of her appraisingly. She tilted her head, and assumed a remarkably innocent looking face. Hermione was briefly reminded of a child in her kindergarten class. He assumed this same pose every time he glued a little girl to her seat (most often, this was Hermione, until she had learned to bite).

"I won't fall for that," Hermione said, seizing her worksheet and returning her attention to it.

"Fall for what?"

"_That_. That little act you cookie thieves put on when you've been caught!"

"_Cookie thief?_" Tate threw her head back in laughter, a bit too far - her chair went straight over backwards and her long legs caught the end of the table. Hermione heard a pained growl extend from the floor, as she stared with half shock and half amusement at the weathered soles of Tate's beloved birkenstocks.

"Are you OK?" she called, biting back her own laugh.

"Dandy," replied Tate, giggling madly. "He's not what you think." Hermione stopped laughing.

"He is exactly what I think. And just where do you get off lecturing me on Malfoy's character when you have known him for less than a week, whereas I have known him for a four and a half years?" Tate tapped her foot on the table.

"I see your point. But I'm willing to bet that I've talked to him more in a week than you, Harry, and Ron put together ever have. And I think he's pretty damned cool. But that's my opinion, and you can ignore it at your will. But maybe he's changed." Her feet disappeared, and her head and torso replaced them. Her chair had uprighted itself. Hermione shook her head - she was not getting used to those little tricks Tate liked to pull. Tate rose from her chair, and leaned over the table to look Hermione in the eye.

"Don't get pissed off that I choose to be his friend though. You're better than that." Hermione held her gaze, unwavering, though she slightly flushed with satisfaction.

"That's fine, but do not expect me to be nice to him." Tate grinned.

"I'd sooner ask you to dance naked at breakfast." And she was gone.

----------

Much later that evening, Ginny stood alone in the communal bathroom shared by the sixth year girls. They never minded her presence there, considering she was only a fifth year. Ginny was universally liked by all of Gryffindor. She looked curiously at her reflection. She shivered involuntarily and drew her dressing gown around her more tightly. The door opened behind her, and Tate stepped in. She smiled warmly at Ginny.

"Hey there, Gin," she said, tossing her towel and shower sandals on the counter.

"'Lo there, Tate. Off to the showers, are you?" Tate shook her head.

"Just laying my stuff out so I won't have to bring it in tomorrow when I do shower." Ginny nodded. Tate lifted herself up onto the bathroom counter, and looked at Ginny. "Tell me about this Yule Ball, will ya. Hermione never seems to have time."

Ginny glowed in excitement. "The Yule Ball is so spectacular, I honestly can't put it very well into words! It's held in the Great Hall, and the decorations are very Christmas like and beautiful. There's a live band, and everyone dresses up. Usually its held only for the Triwizard Tournament, but Dumbledore has kept it running these past two years." Tate nodded, thoughtfully.

"And you'll be going with the Irish boy?"

Now Ginny grinned. Seamus, with his rugged good lucks and sensitive demeanor, had rescued her from her nearly debilitating crush on Harry. Quite often she wondered how she had ever overlooked him in her first four years of Hogwarts.

"I'll take that as a yes." Tate was smiling at her. Ginny shook her head to clear her thoughts and nodded fervently. "Cool. He's very good-looking. Reminds me of B.T. in a weird way."

"I'm sorry, who?" Tate smiled, and jumped off the counter and gestured for Ginny to follow. Ginny scampered after her, and followed Tate up to her room. Ginny followed her through the doorway, and looked in awe at the room. Since Parvati had moved out, the stone walls were no longer electric pink, to her incredible relief. Hermione's side was the same as always - impeccably neat and organized (Ginny found this nearly maddening on occasion), but Tate's side was a riot of color. The stone walls were the same grayish, but at least four large posters hung on the walls.

"Why don't those pictures move?"

Tate was on her knees, digging through her trunk. Over her shoulder, she explained to Ginny that they were muggle pictures. Ginny nodded, and continued staring.

"If you don't mind my asking, Tate, why are there six naked women on your wall." Tate looked up at the poster in question.

"It's Pink Floyd, Ginny. A music group from back home. See the paintings on the womens' backs? Those are their album covers. It's called the _Back Catalogue_." Ginny feigned comprehension, and gazed at the other posters.

"Aha! Found it!" Tate whirled around from her trunk and propped her back up against it. A black, cloth case lay in her lap, and she opened it like a book. Curious, Ginny crept next to her and watched enthusiastically as Tate flipped a plastic sheet like a page - each page contained four of the silver discs that Ginny had seen Tate mucking about with the day before when she had proved Hermione wrong and manipulated her muggle machinery to work in the magic filled environment.

"Here it is," she said, and removed a small picture from behind a blue disc. She handed it to Ginny.

"B.T.," read Ginny, "Movement in still life." Her eyes fell upon the man in the picture. "Well, will you look at that! Seamus does resemble...whoever you said this was!"

"B.T. Told ya so." Ginny giggled. "You can hang onto that."

"Oh no, Tate, this is yours, you keep it!"

"Dude, I don't need it - the disc is what I need, that's his music. What you've got is his picture. I've got his picture locked up in here." She tapped her head. Ginny looked at the small picture in her hand, torn for a moment. She examined it carefully, and realized it was folded more than once. Carefully, she unfolded it, revealing more pictures of the man on the cover, and several paragraphs detailing his songs. She looked up to Tate.

"Thanks. Does your...music player still work?" Tate nodded, a slight smile gracing her face. She pulled the disc, labeled B.T., from her case, walked to the dresser and placed it in the player. Pressing a few small buttons, the music began to play. Ginny was silent for a moment, the music washing over her.

"What do you call this?"

"Trance," said Tate. "Big thing in the states right now. It's part of this new culture. Apparently, it all started right here in Britain. How come you've never heard of this stuff before?"

"Well, truth be told, I have. But I'm not supposed to. You see, my father...he has a bit of a weak spot for all things muggle. My brothers are more interested in the big stuff, like the car he enchanted once. But me, I prefer the little things. There's a muggle radio in the cellar - I think he may have forgotten about it - and I listen to it every few days, when I'm home. I must say, I find muggle music much more entertaining than the Weird Sisters and the like." Tate looked at her hands, briefly.

"Music has a healing power. I believe that down to my bones. Do you play anything, Ms. Weasley?" Ginny blushed and shook her head. "Why not?" pressed Tate, "You've got beautiful hands! You could be an excellent pianist." Tate eyed her. "I'll bet you sing." Ginny smiled shyly.

"Perhaps," she said, "But I've got too much studying to do. I've no time for that."

Tate scoffed. "Of course you've got time. Everyone has to have time for hobbies. Otherwise, we'd all go insane."

"Well then, Ms. Omnipotence, what are yours?" Ginny glared at Tate with a playful fury. Tate smiled.

"I play guitar and piano, for one. I…dance. I work out. Umm...I study?"

Ginny chuckled. "Don't we all? I dance myself - ballet, mostly." Tate looked up in fascination.

"I love ballet! It's one of the dance genres I could never pick up - used to drive me crazy. Do y'all have dance classes here?"

Ginny shook her head. "That's all extra curricular. We are expected to do things like that on our own time." Tate made a face.

"Speaking of dance, will you be accompanying my brother to the Ball?" Much to Ginny's surprise, Tate blushed furiously. She turned her head away.

"No, I won't," she said flatly, "He didn't ask me."

Ginny was momentarily furious with her brother. "You're joking! I know he wanted to! I can't believe he's still so shy, at sixteen!" Tate shrugged.

"Anyways, someone else has already asked me."

Ginny jumped in excitement. "Ohhh, who?"

Well...I was...running around the...uh...halls...in search of...um...something...a tall, blonde kid asked me to be his date, and I accepted." Ginny's blood turned cold.

"You can't mean Malfoy, can you?" Tate turned to look at her, eyes glittering dimly.

"I think that was his name, I can't really remember." Tate seemed very eager to end the conversation. She looked quite wistful suddenly, "Tell Ron to save me a dance. I'd have much preferred to go with him, but…you know…oh well."

Ginny stared in shock. She agreed with her yes, but how was Malfoy a substitution? She said her good evenings to Tate, and walked down to the common room in a daze, where she knew Ron was sure to still be awake with Harry.

Ron was beside himself. "She's going with..._Malfoy?_" He spat the name out with utmost disgust. "How could she? She knows who he is, doesn't she!" Ginny patted his arm sympathetically, while Harry just stared on in shock. He shook his head a few times, attempting to clear his foggy thought.

"Well...Shit happens, eh?" Ron shook his head in disbelief, and stomped up the stairs to bed.

He threw himself down on his scarlet coverlet. He cursed himself over and over for being such a stupid prat. How could he have missed his chance? Why did he have to be so damned nervous all the time? He had made this same mistake before, two years earlier, with Hermione. Why again? A nagging feeling at the base of his skull urged him to make it right, to fix things...it continued to whine as he fell asleep, dreaming of a shadowy figure with long hair and dark eyes.

----------

Harry was the last in the common room that evening. Not because he was studying - that seemed absolutely beyond reasoning, as winter break had all but begun. For some reason, he could not sleep. He could feel a dull ache in his scar, and he needed time alone with his thoughts.

He heard door to the girls dormitory swing open, and Harry half-expected to see Hermione in front of him. He grinned in anticipation, but soon realized that it was not Hermione at all. Furtive footsteps made their way toward the portrait hole, and quickly passed through it. His curiosity piqued, Harry followed the cloaked figure out.

He followed the nondescript person for quite some time, careful not to be seen. Finally, it passed through a door that led to a balcony, one he knew all too well. How many times had he and Hermione snuck out here late at night to have some private, passionate snogging session? He waited a good thirty seconds or so, and silently slipped through the door, into the night. The figure was a girl and she had pulled back her hood, and moonlight reflected off her hair. Glints of red winked at him. Her pale skin was bathed in the silvery evening light, and her features were darkly accentuated. He recognized her as Tate. She drew a small package out of her pocket, and shook something out of it. Removing her gloves and pushing her sleeves back, Harry saw a small white stick in her hand. Harry's mind reeled, out of more habit than instinct. Was she some kind of dark witch perhaps? But his worries were quelled when she drew out a blue lighter, and lit what was obviously a cigarette. She brought it to her mouth and inhaled the smoke. She breathed deeply, soothingly, and blew the smoke out into the night air.

"It's not nice to sneak up on people, Mr. Potter," she said slowly. Harry was annoyed - he had been so quiet!

"You know, that's quite hazardous to your health," said Harry. She smiled slightly.

"I know. But it relieves the tension. And I don't mind the health risks. Choose your own way to die, that's what my father used to say." Harry chuckled grimly.

"Maybe I should start up. Might die of cancer before Voldemort has a chance to try and kill me again." Tate looked at him sharply.

"Shut up, will you? If he was so damned powerful, you'd be dead already. Hermione has told me what you've been through. Seems to me like the big bad Voldemort ought to be shaking in his boots." Harry smiled wanly, noting that she used his name, instead of the you-know-who business everyone was so fond of. She probably didn't know she was supposed to be afraid of his name. He made a mental note never to tell her that.

"I suppose so," he agreed, "But the battles not over. Not yet, anyways." Tate drew on the cigarette, enveloping herself in a cloud of smoke. She looked a bit intimidating, Harry thought. Give her a wand and something to be mad about, and she could probably be terrifying if she had half a mind to do so.

"So you are going to the Yule Ball with Malfoy," he said. She nodded, lifting the cigarette to her lips. "What the bloody hell for?" She smiled at the indignance in his voice.

"Dunno," she replied, "Cause he asked me." Harry snorted.

"Alright then, but be fair. You'd rather be going with Ron." He grinned at her, knowingly. She looked at him through half-closed eyes.

"Like I told Ginny, he'd be smart to save me a dance."


	3. Christmas

The following day was bliss. Morning classes passed mercifully quick, and afternoon classes were cancelled - a tradition since year the before. Dumbledore felt it allowed the students to compose themselves for the coming evening and say their goodbyes, as tomorrow the majority of students would depart for the hols. The afternoon consisted of snow fights and ice skating on the Hogwarts grounds. Hermione had barely noticed the absence of Dean and Tate, who were AWOL since the end of breakfast up until the convergence of the Gryffindors into the common room. Before she knew it, the sun was setting and the Yule Ball was upon them.

It was seven in the evening, and all the Gryffindor girls were grooming for the night to come. Lavender Brown had surprised everyone with several bottles of expensive Elvish champagne, and everyone was giggling, all bearing flutes of the lovely stuff.

"Parvati, take that horrible necklace off!" Hermione seized Parvati and unclasped a ridiculously large, winking topaz from her neck.

"Hey, give it here!"

"Not a chance," Hermione snapped, holding the hideous necklace out of reach. "It's awful! It's yellow, and your wearing pink!" Most girls laughed and it was unanimously agreed that the necklace should never have been created in the first place. Parvati, however, clawed valiantly for the necklace, screeching that it came as a set with the dress, and the omnipotent Elves Saint Laurent was not to be questioned.

"Parvati, it looks like piss. Here, wear this," said Tate as she dug around in someone's jewelry box. She threw a fine silver chain with a rose quartz pendant, cut in the shape of a star, and Parvati caught it. Parvati looked at it appraisingly, and put it on. It complimented her bright pink robes perfectly.

"Thanks," she said. Tate waved her off.

Hermione looked ravishing in robes of flowing crimson silk chiffon, her hair expertly coiffed into a lovely twist at the top of her head, with a mass of shining curls spiraling down her back. She was, at the moment, assisting Tate with her hair. Tate had attempted to use Muggle curling devices, to the chagrin of the entire dormitory. Hermione had ripped them away and begun casting curling charms on Tate's hair. It looked excellent so far. Hermione marveled at Tate's dress. _Ron is going to lose his mind_, she thought, laughing a bit. The dress was sleeveless, satin, and silvery, with a tight bodice and a flowing skirt. The bodice was clasped with shimmering silver buttons shaped like leaves, all down the front. On her left shoulder, a black tattoo (Sanskrit, she had explained, for balance) was visible. A tiny swan, encrusted with white jewels, sparkled at her throat, on loan from Lavender. All the other girls were rather in awe of Tate's long, white arms. She had very visible muscles that rippled in her shoulders, back, and arms. It wasn't very feminine in the least, but it seemed to suit Tate's rather hard demeanor. It had not gone unnoticed among the dormitory that Tate rarely giggled or spoke, unless she was in the company of Hermione, and occasionally Ginny (or Ron, Hermione noted to herself). Otherwise, she was rather stoic, even a bit withdrawn.

"D'ya have to work out a lot to get your arms that way?" Parvati asked Tate, as she examined her own pale arms. Tate looked at her, one eyebrow raised.

"Of course," she said briskly, "I wasn't born with them." Parvati opened her mouth, as if to say something, then shut it quickly, looking rather hurt at Tate's terse reply. Then she apparently changed her mind.

"What do you do?" Tate spun around in the swiveling chair to look at her. She grinned wickedly.

"This," she said, and made a pretty rude gesture with her left hand. Everyone gasped, and then burst into laughter. "Kidding! Just kidding."

Tate had tried to coerce Hermione into wearing another dress of hers, a gorgeous black concoction, also with a bodice that laced sensuously across the back and a shimmering satin skirt, but she had flat out refused. Hermione would not break the dress code, even if it meant an evening in one of Vera Wang's most fabulous creations. Lavender, however, was ecstatic about it, and Tate had loaned it to her. Ginny applied the necessary resizing charms to the dress. Even so, Hermione could not escape Tate when she insisted on applying muggle cosmetics to Hermione's face.

"Come on," Tate had said, "I swear I won't make you look any different. My mother was a cosmetologist, now sit down." Hermione, to the delight of the other girls, had finally given in (though she hadn't much of a choice, as Ginny, Parvati, and Lavender had helped to hold her down), and she had to admit that the cosmetics were quite becoming.

"Aren't you done yet?" Tate whined to Hermione, who was still casting charms on her hair. Hermione made a face at Tate, and shook her head. Ginny came to stand beside Hermione, watching her deftly spin her wand around.

"When are you going to teach me how to do that!"

Hermione threw up her hands in disgust. Now Ginny was whining!

"I have shown you ten times," Hermione shrieked exasperatedly, "and we have established that you are hopeless." Ginny stuck out her tongue at Hermione, who threatened to tell everyone that Ginny had purchased skivvies at Eowyn's Exotic Emporium, on Sinners Row, katty corner to Knockturn Alley. Ginny shut up immediately and nervously adjusted her robes.

"You look incredible, Ginny." Tate might as well have been saying 'pass the butter' for all her tone revealed, but Ginny flushed with happiness anyways.

"Thanks! I hope Seamus likes my robes." Ginny's robes had originally been emerald green, but Mandy Brocklehurst, one of her closest friends from Ravenclaw, had suggested blue at the last minute. Mandy was, by far, the most fashion savvy girl at Hogwarts. She had created a sketch in Ginny's likeness, and they sat together, alternating the dress and eye color to pass away the free time. When they charmed the sketch blue, Mandy had flat out insisted on color charming Ginny's robes. Ginny, in awe of the sketch, couldn't refuse. Now, she was swathed in sapphire blue satin, and Hermione had temporarily charmed her eyes. Instead of brown, they were ice blue. Her glimmering red hair cascaded down her back in loose, curling tendrils. Tate watched her, an amused smile on her face.

"What are you grinning at, Chuckles?" Hermione asked her.

"Your mom." Hermione blinked at her, confusion plain on her face.

"Why would you be thinking about my mum?"

Tate shook her head, laughing. "Forget it. It's an Americanism."

Hermione narrowed her eyes. "It better not be one of your dirty Americanisms!"

Tate batted her eyes at Hermione. "When have I ever had a clean one?" She grinned wickedly, one eyebrow raised. Hermione laughed.

"You know you like quite evil when you do that."

Tate reached up to feel her hair. "That's the idea. Hey Gin, c'mere for a minute." Ginny appeared at her side. Tate swiveled around in the chair, and looked around for Lavender.

"Lavender! Where are you?"

"Over here! What d'ya want?"

"Can I dig around in your jewelry for a minute?" Lavender nodded. "Thanks. _Accio_."

Lavender's large, ornate jewelry box flew to Tate. She put it on the counter, opened it, and began rifling through the masses of sparkling, somewhat gaudy jewels. After a minute or so of fruitless searching, she shook her head in annoyance, closed the box, and began digging through her own, tiny jewelry bag. She withdrew a sparkling choker, and beckoned to Ginny.

"Let's see how this looks." She clasped the choker around Ginny's delicate, white throat. The choker clung snugly to her, and Ginny looked at her reflection, her rosebud mouth forming a silent O.

"Wow," she breathed. Tate examined the necklace, and nodded, her eyes glittering.

"That works well, eh?" Ginny nodded, marveling at the exquisite piece. Tiny diamonds were arranged in the shapes of interlocking snowflakes, each outlined with a delicate veneer of platinum. The choker seemed to fuse itself into Ginny's throat, as though a tiny veil of ice had been arranged there.

"Thank you," Ginny murmured. "Thanks so much."

"Sure," Tate said, her eyes fixed on Ginny's reflection. She felt a great kinship towards Ginny, though she would never say so. Although Tate had no idea of the magnitude of terrible things Ginny had endured during her first year at Hogwarts, nor could she even begin to comprehend the malevolent forces that had drained Ginny nearly to her death, she sensed a terrible pain in the girl's young heart. A pain that matched her own - stinging guilt intertwined with the incredulity that could only befall a person who had, at one time or another, allowed themselves to be overcome with temptation, emotion, and hunger. Hunger for something that couldn't be bought, nor stolen, nor attained through any means human. Ginny had longed for acceptance, friendship that wasn't found, and the love of a boy who would never return her feelings. Tate had yearned for the similar, yet more generalized intangibles, and both girls found themselves lost in a whirlwind of confusion and betrayal. Ginny had been betrayed by the diary that temporarily took over her mind, body, and soul. Tate had been betrayed by her own mind. Although their experiences were drastically different, the turbulent emotional aftermath was the same. Tate, for a time, had internally reasoned that she should feel something along the same lines with Harry - he had dealt with the endless pains of hatred since he had been left on the doorstep of the Dursleys'. Tate knew all about his childhood. But Harry was like a solid, stone fortress to Tate. His pain was caused by outsiders, from beginning to end. Ginny and Tate had cultivated their own miserable desperation. And it was this reflective feeling of latent self-loathing that had prompted Tate to reach out and bond with the youngest Weasley. Pure empathy, in the most realistic sense, riddled their friendship, like an unspoken nexus of shared compassion. Ginny, painfully sensitive to many things (namely dark magic, which chilled her very bones whenever in close proximity) since her experience with Tom Riddle, had accepted the friendship with open arms. They were, by no means, close friends - but both understood each other in ways that no one else ever would, nor could, relate to.

"Alright ladies," announced Lavender, "it is a quarter of eight, and we must be on our way!" Giggling madly, the girls filed out of the dressing room, and descended down the stairs to the Common Room.

----------

Harry, wearing his trademark green velvet dress robes, caught his breath when he saw Hermione. She always made his stomach do a spectacular flip-flop whenever he saw her (or even thought about her, for that matter), but now he was struck dumb by her beauty. She approached him, and he could only stutter.

"You look…_amazing_." She smiled, shyly. She curtsied in mock grandeur, as he took her hand in his. Ron came to stand beside Hermione, taking a steadying breath. She grinned up at him, and linked her arm with his. The three stepped through the portrait hall, and made their way toward an evening full of promise and splendor.

----------

Entering the Great Hall during the Yule Ball was always a fantastic experience. Everything looked spectacular, discounting a good number of Slytherins who always looked vindictive and angry (which doesn't go well on any face). Hermione sighed in wonder. She loved the Yule Ball. For one night, everyone was beautiful and amicable, and the world seemed to stop and genuflect the atmosphere of shimmering grace. It was heaven, come to life, in the most magnificent school in the U.K. Hagrid had arranged the stunning décor of sparkling ice statues, enormous trees draped in dazzling tinsel and silver ornaments that seemed to hum softly. White lilies were intertwined with the fresh smelling pine and holly boughs that graced the walls. Mistletoe was strategically placed all around the Hall. Tiny snowflakes fell from the bewitched ceiling.

The Weird Sisters had opted not to return this year, due to their demanding tour schedule, which had expanded to include Japan and China. In their place was a relatively new group, called Shamanic Air. There were five male members, and most of the females in the hall were beginning to fawn over them. Harry glared at Hermione when the bassist made eyes at her. She giggled, and waved him off. She was looking around for Ginny and Seamus, when she saw Draco and Tate enter the room. Tate was looking slightly serene and pretty, expressionless as usual, whereas Draco was smirking at the Gryffindor table. Hermione had to admit that, with his white blond hair and strong features, he was quite striking. Maybe even sexy. Hermione jumped at her own through process.

_Malfoy? Sexy? Did I just say that?_ She shook her head violently, whipping Harry with her curls. He laughed merrily, lithely slid his hand up beneath her silky, shimmering curls, and began running his fingers along the back of her neck. He succeeded in sending like sparks of ecstasy shooting through her shoulders. She shivered, and slapped him away.

"Later," she whispered. Harry looked quite reluctant to remove his roaming hands, but he did. Tate and Draco were dancing now, and Hermione was unsurprised to see that he was very good. With all that money and old blood in his family, she supposed it was only natural that he would have been forced to take dancing lessons. Ron finally appeared, and sat down heavily next to them. He was looking murder at Draco.

"Calm down, Ron," said Hermione, "you know she likes you." Ron merely grunted, clearly unconvinced.

Harry shook his head lightly at Hermione and whispered, "Things will look up for him. I promise - just wait." Hermione glanced at him, and nodded. "Can't say I'm too happy about it either, considering she's a bit strange," he added, too low for Hermione to hear.

The introduction song ended, and Dumbledore stood at the head of the teacher's table. He clapped his hands, and everyone looked up.

"I assume you remember how the dinner situation works." Everyone nodded, looking toward the small menus lying in front of the golden plates. "And now I would like to thank Shamanic Air for gracing us with their talent." Everyone applauded, and the band responded with roguish winks. "I would also like to thank Hagrid for his excellent decoration of the Great Hall." More applause. "At this time, I would like to introduce a very special surprise for the evening. Two of our students are exceptionally talented, musically. They have accepted my request that they grace all of us with their talent this evening. They convened with Shamanic Air several times over the past few days, and will be accompanying them for several numbers. I would like to add that the songs they will be performing are Muggle in nature." Several of the Slytherins groaned, but were immediately silenced by Dumbledore's ice cold stare.

"May I stress the ever important message that harmony with Muggles is essential to our survival. We must all live in peace to live comfortably. On this note, may I also announce that Muggle studies is to be a required subject next term." This elicited boos from the Slytherins, most of whom were outraged.

"May this be your first taste of things to come." Dumbledore smiled warmly, with an ere of mystery.

"Now, may I present Mr. Dean Thomas, and Ms. Tate Blackeberry." The Hall echoed with applause (and boos from the Slytherins) as Tate and Dean made their way toward the stage, smiling nervously at each other. The Gryffindors cheered and whistled the loudest, all of them on their feet. Dean and Tate retrieved their instruments from behind the teachers' table. Dean threw the strap of his bass guitar over his head, as Tate lifted an acoustic guitar from its case. Both taking places to the left of the lead singer, the drummer began his count, and they all began to play.

Hermione grabbed Harry and Ron and dragged them toward the dance floor, positioning herself right in front of the stage, grinning up at her two classmates.

_Raven-Haired...Ruby Lips...Sparks fly from her fingertips...Echoed voices in the night, she's a restless spirit on an endless flight..._

Ron had finally begun to smile, as Tate winked at him from onstage. Dean's face was lit up with pride as he expertly played his bass.

_Ooh-Ooh Witchy Woman...See how high she flies..._

"I never knew he was so good at the guitar," mused Ron, "I mean, I knew he could play, but I didn't know he could _play_." Ginny and Seamus came to stand with them, beaming at Dean.

"Will you have a dance, Ron?"

"Sure I will, sis." Ron swept Ginny away into the crowd.

"Well, since I'm here with the loveliest girl at the party, I can't very well not be dancing, can I?" said Harry. Hermione blushed with flattery. Harry extended his hand to Seamus.

"Come on, love! Dance with me!" Seamus choked with laughter and swatted Harry's hand away.

"You soddin' puff, get away!" All three laughed, and Harry slid his arm around Hermione's waist and they begin to dance.

Soon, a new song began. Tate furiously strummed her guitar in time with the other male guitarist, who resembled a young Gilderoy Lockhart. To everyone's great delight, Dean sang. Hermione smiled, recognizing the song.

_Ever since I was a young boy, I played the silver ball...From SoHo down to Brighton, I must've played them all..._

"My parents play this all the time," she said dreamily. They began to dance faster, quickly moving out of the way of Neville and Eloise Midgen, who were both awkwardly turning in circles, Eloise was trying her best to keep her delicately shoed toes from Neville's lethal two left feet.

_That deaf, dumb, and blind kid sure plays a mean pinball...He's a pinball wizard, there has to be a twist..._

Dumbledore and McGonagall sat at the teachers table, looking at the array of festive joy below them.

"Quite an interesting night, isn't it Minnie," said Dumbledore. She nodded in silent awe - she was still in waning shock at the events that were destined to unfold in the short future.

"Where is Severus," she asked, annoyed slightly with his lack of presence. No sooner had she spoken, then Snape slid into the chair next to her.

"Fashionably late again, Severus?" Dumbledore winked at the sallow potions master. Snape nodded curtly, and turned his attention to the stage.

_To everything turn, turn, turn...There is a season, turn, turn, turn...And a time to every purpose under heaven...a time to be born, a time to die...a time to plant, a time to reap...a time to kill, a time to heal...a time to laugh, a time to weep..._

"Rather appropriate song, don't you think?" Dumbledore cocked his head slightly toward his fellow professors. McGonagall nodded sharply, Snape did not react. Dumbledore sighed lightly, and seized his menu.

"Sushi!" A colorful array of sashimi and hand rolls appeared on Dumbledore's plate. Snape and McGonagall looked at him as though he grown another head and was making plans for a political switch to communism in Britain with a twelve foot tall Professor Flitwick.

"What?" asked Dumbledore. "It's good!" Snape shook his head.

"You're going mad, you are." Dumbledore merely grinned at him.

_A time for peace, I swear it's not too late..._

Tate and Dean strode to the center of the stage, sitting on the stools that had been placed there. Dean had put away his bass, and perched on his seat, looking as though he were made specifically for the purposes of entertaining a crowd. Tate began to play her guitar, the lone instrument involved in the song. She seemed to lose herself in her playing, her face a mask of concentration and intense pleasure. They began to sing together, Tate lightly harmonizing behind Dean's magnificent voice.

_By the rivers of Babylon...Where he sat down...And there he went...When he remembered Zion...Oh for the wicked, carry us away...Captivity...requires from us a song...Oh, how can we sing King Alpha's song in a strange land..._

People began to dance, humming along to the catchy tune. Hermione and Harry swayed delicately, and Seamus took over dancing with Ginny. Professor McGonagall accepted an invitation to dance by Snape, much to the horror of all the Gryffindors. Professor McGonagall herself looked confused, yet flattered - or it might have been nausea.

_So let the words of our mouth, and the meditation of our heart...be acceptable in the sight...Over I..._

After the song ended, Tate and Dean shook hands with the band, and returned to the dance floor, to the profuse congratulations and encouragement of their fellow students. Tate was flushed with happiness, as was Dean. They hugged and congratulated each other and then scattered to find their respective dates. Ron's stomach sank as he realized she was going to look for Malfoy. He spun around, bent on returning to his table to brood, when he felt a strong hand descend upon his shoulder.

"And where do you think you are going?" demanded Tate. Ron smiled, a sudden debonair charm overtaking his nervousness.

"Right here," he said, taking her by the wrist. He led her to the dance floor.

Hermione, desperate to see how the outside of Hogwarts looked, drew Harry through the side door, toward the garden path, which had been majestically glamoured to shimmer iridescently with live fairies, as always. They walked along, Hermione's robes making a light swishy noise. The fairies were singing, their voices like tinkling bells, and it seemed as though Harry and Hermione were inside a dream. Magnificent red and white roses bloomed in the hedges, intoxicating all who entered with their seductive aroma. Settling herself on a stone bench, shaped like a mermaid, Hermione snuggled against Harry's muscular chest and sighed contentedly. He tipped her face up, and his lips touched hers. Lightening hot warmth cascaded through her body, and she melted into the kiss, bringing her hand up to run through his thick, untidy hair. He sighed softly, and moved his lips to her neck, sending jolts of electricity down her spine.

"Oh, Harry," she murmured, "can't tonight just stay?" Harry looked at her with his liquid green eyes, his face glowing with affection.

"If I could make it, I would." He traced her jaw with one finger. "You are so beautiful," he whispered. "You know I love you, right?" Hermione's eyes filled with tears of love, and she pulled him to her tightly.

"I love you so much," she whispered. "No one can ever take this from us." And she lifted her face and kissed him again, temporarily forgetting the foreboding of war that seemed to surround her being every day. There was a tiny, permanent fear emblazoned on her breastbone, at all times. But now, in this perfect moment, she staunchly ignored it, telling herself that Voldemort would have to get past her if he wanted Harry. And there wasn't a chance in hell any man would ever get past a woman in love.

Ron held Tate as they danced to a particularly interesting slow song. The Shamanistic Air apparently had some dirty lyrics they had "forgotten" to mention to Dumbledore. Tate was shaking in silent laughter, as the lead singer went on about a waitress and what she had done to make him so "happy" in a bathroom stall at the Quidditch World Cup. Professor McGonagall leapt onto the stage and attempted to wrestle the microphone away from him. Dumbledore was chuckling, with that familiar amused gleam in his eyes.

"I think I'll cut in, Weasley," Draco snapped, in a voice dripping with disdain. Tate looked up, and before Ron could say the rudest thing he could think of, she told Draco she would dance with him when the song was over. Draco's eyes flashed, but he nodded, and turned away. Ron felt a surge of jealousy and hatred. Tate smiled at him, and placed her head on his shoulder. The song ended. Tate snatched both his hands, before he could walk away.

"Do you like me?" Ron was struck blind by this question. He fumbled for words, spluttering like a madman. How could he answer that without sounding stupid, or desperate, or...

"Yes or no will do, Mr. Weasley." Ron took the chance.

"Uh, yes. Yes I do."

"Good. I like you too. And that settles it. Now, I am going to dance with him because he asked me to accompany him to this event. And because he is my friend. But don't take any offense by it." With that, she went up on her tiptoes, which caused several Hufflepuffs to snigger, as Tate was by far the tallest girl at Hogwarts, standing at a bit over six feet tall (although, in combination with her fancy heeled shoes, she broke even at six foot two), and Ron still managed to tower over her, at six foot five. It made for a rather funny arrangement. She lightly touched her own forehead to Ron's, turned and disappeared into the throng of brightly colored robes. Ron was rooted to the spot, dumbfounded. He exhaled a deep sigh, without even noticing he'd been holding his breath. The reality of what had just been said set in, and a grin stretched wide on his face.

"Yes!" he cried, punching the air with his fist, and strode over to a table to join Dean and Seamus.

Hermione and Harry re-entered the Great Hall to see Tate spinning wildly with Draco to a fast paced swing dance song. Draco was very well schooled in dance, as he not only kept up with Tate, but was, in fact, leading. People laughed as he lifted her into the air, and then swung her body around his waist. Harry and Hermione made their way over to Dean, Seamus, and Ron to watch the spectacle. They were soon joined by Ginny and Lavender.

"Wow, Draco is a really good dancer," marveled Lavender. Dean, her date, looked at her in horror.

"He looks like a bloody fairy out there!" exclaimed Seamus. Harry and Ron began to laugh.

"He's as bent as a nine pound note," added Ron. The whole table was laughing now. Draco flipped Tate over his back, and she went on to perform several back-hand-springs, hampered slightly by her skirt and heeled shoes. To everyone's great shock and amazement, so did Draco.

"Wow!" marveled Ginny, "he didn't even stumble!"

"Damn it, someone hex him next time he does one of those! Maybe he'll break his neck!"

"Seamus, you'd better be quiet!" As Ginny and Seamus began to get into it, Harry rolled his eyes at Hermione, who giggled. "Lovers quarrel," she mouthed. The song ended, and Tate and Draco were laughing hysterically, patting each other on the back. Most of the school was shocked. Few had ever seen Draco Malfoy smile before. The Slytherins looked blue murder. Pansy's rage was so intense that Hermione could feel it coming off of her, like a humid, suffocating heat reeking of sulfur. The feeling intensified, but as Pansy huffily exited the Ball, it lessened, and finally dissipated.

----------

The Ball ended quite late, but most of the Gryffindor sixth and seventh years were still awake in the common room. Lavender's Elvish champagne had made reappearance, and everyone was warm and very tipsy. Hermione sat in Harry's lap, Tate was sprawled across Ron's stomach on the couch, absent-mindedly tuning her guitar. Dean had his guitar too, and Lavender was curled up beside him. Ginny and Seamus lay on their stomachs next to the chair Neville occupied. Tate's white-gold puppy, Minky, was darting around the common room, overjoyed at the abundance of human company. Crookshanks was perched on top of a cabinet, furtively watching Minky with strong interest. Every once in a while, he would leap off the cabinet and land directly on top of Minky, causing the overexcited pup to howl madly.

"So Neville, how was Eloise Midgen?" sang Hermione. Everyone giggled, and Neville turned pink.

"She was fine," he said meekly. "Never complained about me stepping on her feet once." Ginny laughed harder.

"Not likely!" she cried. "You have feet of stone! I think mine are still scarred from third year!" Neville chuckled and tossed a pillow at her.

"Man, Draco can _dance_!" giggled Parvati. "He looked so smooth out there! Does he have big muscles, Tate?" Tate's face broke into a wide smile as a dozen expectant feminine eyes turned her way.

"Yes, I must say he does. And you know what they say about guys who can dance!"

Ron snorted, as the girls giggled scandalously. "Yah, they fuckin' put dresses on, and prance around like puffs!" The boys exploded with laughter.

"Pink ones!" shouted Harry, wiping tears of mirth out of his eyes. He squealed suddenly, and quite high-pitched, when Minky planted a sloppy puppy kiss on his ear with her long pink tongue.

"Parvati, darlin'," Tate drawled in a forced southern accent, "I heard you've got a sister named Padma."

"I do," giggled Parvati, "What of it?"

"Do y'all know the etymology of your names?" Parvati shook her head. "It's Sanskrit," Tate told her. "Both of 'em. Parvati means 'daughter of the mountain'. Padma means 'lotus'."

Parvati grinned, and raised her champagne flute. "Of course I know that! Everyone hail to the daughter of the mountain!" Lavender booed her, and Parvati threw mistletoe at her.

Hermione glanced at Tate, rather squiffy herself. "You know Sanskrit?" Tate nodded without looking up. "How many damn languages do you speak, bint!" Tate merely smiled and shook her head.

"My secret," she grinned, and then addressed Seamus in a new language, and his eyes brightened considerably. They twined on for a few minutes in what was apparently Gaelic, and Hermione began to shout at Tate to stop showing off. Tate pulled a pitiful face and batted her eyes at Hermione, who laughed despite herself. Harry mimed holding a telephone to his ear.

"Hello, Kettle? This is the pot. You're black!" Hermione snorted in irritation and playfully bit Harry's wrist.

"What do you Americans do when you're out getting pissed like this?" Neville looked over at Tate, his eyes unfocused. Tate smiled, good-naturedly.

"Pretty much the same things you do," she said, "hang around, watch movies, leave lit fireworks on the math teacher's doorstep, play truth-or-dare, you know...stuff." Lavender's eyes widened, and she bounced up and down in glee.

"Truth or dare!" she shrieked. "We simply must play! I haven't played in forever!" Ron groaned and swatted Tate on the shoulder. He looked at her reprovingly as if to say "why did you have to go and do that?" She giggled, and poked him in the side.

"Bark like a dog for me!" Tate shouted at Lavender. Lavender tittered, and refused. "Boring, eh? There are better games."

"No, no, let's play," asserted Dean. "There's plenty of things I'd like to ask people here, and I'd fancy the opportunity to get a straight answer."

Harry nodded in agreement. "In vino, veritas."

"Fine then! Fine, you bloody children," huffed Ron. Hermione laughed and threw a hair clip at him, which bounced off the side of his head. He turned to her, and rolled his eyes dramatically. She grimaced at him.

"I'll start," piped up Lavender. "Hermione..." she began. Hermione groaned, irritably. "Have you shagged Harry yet?" Everyone cracked up as Hermione spluttered indignantly.

"What a rude question, Lavender! Have you no tact? Honestly!"

Lavender merely laughed harder, slapping the ground. "You have to answer! Those are the rules!"

"Yah, cmon Hermione!" Seamus was in hysterics.

"Not that it is any of your business, but no I have not!" Hermione was in a complete tizzy over the question.

"Ha! Harry's not getting any," Ron exclaimed in glee.

"Hey," Harry shot back indignantly, "I'm getting a hell of lot more than you are! At least my girlfriend is real and not the sleeve of my favorite jacket, you bloody wanker!" The laughter was explosive. Ron choked in fury, and fixed his eyes, full of promising revenge, on Harry.

"Oh go on Hermione, I meant no harm, it's just a game," Lavender said, in a placating tone, "Have some more of this, you'll feel better!" Lavender filled Hermione's flute with champagne. Hermione giggled, and accepted the glass, raising it in toast to Lavender. "It's your turn now."

Hermione looked around at her victims, grinning wickedly. Who to pick? What to ask? Finally, she settled on Ginny.

"Ginny, I dare you to show Seamus that naughty little number you've got on under your robes." Ginny turned bright red, and howled in protest. Seamus's face glowed with excitement, and he gave Hermione an exuberant thumbs up. Everyone else looked expectantly at Ginny, most especially Neville, Dean and Harry. Sure, they all had girlfriends, but why pass up a free look at a very beautiful girl's naughty skivvies? Seamus shot them all looks of doom. Ron was horrified.

"All the boys, shut your eyes!" he bellowed.

"Ah, cmon Ron!"

"Now!"

The game continued on in quite a festive manner. Most people were considerably drunk at this point, most notably Parvati and Lavender, and the dares were getting ruder, the questions more intimate. It was Neville's turn, and he tried to recover sufficiently to find a person to direct something at. His head was still spinning, as Seamus had made him choose which Professor he'd most rather shag; Professor Snape or Argus Filch. Neville had nearly hyperventilated. He gazed around the room and settled on Tate.

"Show us all of your tattoos!" he demanded, and everyone sat up in excitement. Tate laughed and shook her head. Ron put his hand over her mouth.

"No cheating!" he said. "You laughed when they made me go moon the third years!" She shrugged.

"No looking!" she said, and waited until she was sure everyone had hidden their eyes. She undid her bodice, removed it, and used a fogging charm to cover herself appropriately.

"Alright," she said gruffly, "here they are." The room, filled with giggles and whispers, went silent. There were more than tattoos on her body. There were two jagged scars on her torso - one on her back, and one on her stomach, a few inches below the juncture of her ribcage. The muscles in her stomach were as defined as Harry's. Hermione surmised that they looked so prominent due to the significant weight loss Tate had experienced during her incarceration at the muggle prison. Ron was a bit astonished. Despite her height, Tate was a very thin, narrow-boned girl. The muscles were a bit too pronounced and a bit too boyish for most tastes. Several of the Gryffindor boys found it rather unattractive, most especially Harry. This was, he reasoned with himself, due to the fact that he really didn't like her much at all. That, and she was making him look bad. He was the one with the washboard abs in Gryffindor! Naturally, he found himself in constant competition with Seamus, Ron, and Dean, but adding another person to the list was just a bit too much - especially when that other person was a _girl_. Harry bit back the petulant grimace that was threatening to spring forth.

Tate adjusted her skirt to reveal a black tattoo on her hip. "This is elvish writing. Tolkein invented it. It means 'friend'." Hermione restrained herself from correcting Tate. Elves _did_ exist, and J. R. R. Tolkein had most certainly not created the language. He was just an acquaintance of theirs. But she held her tongue, placating herself with the promise that she would inform Tate later. Tate turned around and indicated a Chinese symbol in the center of her back, right on the spinal cord.

"It means 'enlightened'." She neglected to explain the Sanskrit tattoo on her shoulder, as it had been visible throughout the evening, as had the tattoo on her wrist. She adjusted her skirt again, and a small fairy appeared, etched on the small of her back. Lavender squealed in pleasure, and expressed her own wishes for a fairy tattoo. Tate lifted her skirt from her feet and stuck out her left foot. On the top of her foot was the brightly colored gecko Hermione had seen the first day she had met Tate. On her ankle was a black bar code. She wobbled a little bit, and nearly fell into Ron.

Neville could not restrain himself. "What are those scars from?"

"Neville!" Hermione glared at him, angry enough to spit nails. Neville had no right to pose such a personal question, even considering that the scars were in plain sight. Common etiquette postulated against such intrusions.

He bowed his head immediately. "I'm sorry," he said quickly. "I shouldn't have asked that." Tate shrugged.

"No biggie," she said dismissively. "Everyone turn around again." Everyone did, and Hermione, even with her hands in front of her eyes, could not erase the mental picture of the two disfiguring scars she had just seen on Tate's torso. It bothered her more, she realized, because she had witnessed the attack that caused them, while suspended in Tate's memory.

"What, no penguin tattoos?" teased Ginny. Everyone began to laugh again.

"Penguins are amazing creatures," insisted Tate. "They ought to be higher in the food chain than humans!" Ron snorted.

"And why's that?"

"Because," Tate began, "a penguin can get up on his little iceberg and look around at a crowd of eight million penguins, find one, and say 'that's my baby'. And then they are together for the rest of their life! They find their soul mates just by looking at them. Look at us, for Christ's sake! We can't find shit, and when we do, we can't decide if we want it or not!"

"I found mine." Hermione's voice was as delicate and smooth as silk, and she slid her arms around Harry's neck. He rested his head on top of hers.

Tate rolled over on Ron's lap to face them, her face twitching as though she were holding back a howl of laughter. She extended her hand to Hermione, and spoke in a deeply forced, funny French accent. "I see zat you are very fond of cheese. May I possibly offer you some ham? Perhaps a nice platter of corn?" Hermione put her hand over her mouth to suppress her giggles. She blushed, realizing that she had been quite cheesy - very Un-Hermione behavior. Damn this wine! Hermione attempted valiantly to change the subject.

"Who will be staying then? For the hols?" Harry, Ron, and Tate raised their hands. "Where are you going, Ginny?"

Ginny smiled coyly, and linked her arm with Seamus. "I'll be spending Christmas in Ireland this year. We're going to go to his -" She was interrupted by the violent outburst of laughter from Ron and Dean. Tate had leapt out of her perch on Ron's lap, to stand above Hermione and Harry. She was playing her guitar and mock-serenading the two.

"This is the night, it's a beautiful night, and we call it Bella Notte!" Hermione shrieked indignantly and reached toward Tate, attempting to seize her guitar. Tate evaded her and continued to circle Harry and Hermione, changing songs every few verses.

"When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie, that's amore!" Ginny dissolved in giggles. Hermione leapt up and seized Tate around the waist, bringing them both crashing to the floor. The rest of the evening was lost in laughter.

----------

The next day, most of the students departed home for the Christmas hols. Harry, Ron, and Hermione stayed, of course - they always did. Tate had also stayed, but, once the break officially began, they rarely saw her unless it was evening. To their great dismay, Malfoy had also stayed, for the third year running. Late Christmas Eve, Ron, Harry, Hermione and Tate found themselves together in the common room. Tate and Hermione were currently engrossed in quite an argument - Ron and Harry were playing chess.

"So you are telling me," Tate was saying, "that every single fairy tale I've ever read, with the exception of Snow White, is factual?" Hermione nodded fervently.

"It was all written by magic folk - kind of a commercial industry if you will." Tate was shaking her head in disbelief. Hermione sighed. "Didn't you have a tutor? Professor McGonagall told me you did."

"Yah, Niels, but he didn't tell me about anything surrounding the whole magical community. Actually, he completely left that out. Niels hinted that there were magical communities around, but he never came right out and said so. The only thing he ever said with certainty was something about another half...I don't know, he was real cryptic. Don't know why he did that..." Tate was looking slightly annoyed. Her complete ignorance of the existence of magical creatures, people, and history appeared to infuriate her to no end.

"Well, perhaps he left that out so as not to shock you too badly?" Hermione suggested. Tate snorted.

"I'm going to kick him real hard next time I see him," she fumed.

"So what are you working on so diligently in the library?"

"Just trying to catch up on the last ten thousand years worth of history, I guess."

"Need any help?"

"Definitely, otherwise I'll fail everything, especially potions. I've been working with Snape down in the classrooms, and I suck! He makes fun of me constantly!" Ron looked up in anger.

"What does that poncey git say to you?" he asked. Tate looked at him in surprise.

"I meant he makes fun of me good-naturedly." Now it was Ron's turn to look surprised. Harry and Hermione were rather confused too. Good-natured and Snape? Those were two words that didn't even belong in the same universe, let alone the same sentence. Tate shook her head and smiled at the three of them.

"He's not such a bad guy - I think he's funny. And he's helping me out a lot. I've never done this potion making crap before, and he is very patient with me." Hermione, Ron, and Harry were still rendered speechless. Tate sighed in defeat.

"All right, fine. You got me. He's a complete asshole and I wish he were dead," she lied.

"Now that's more like it," grinned Ron, and he and Harry returned to their chess game.

"So, what about wookies? Are they real too?"

Hermione rolled her eyes dramatically, and deftly tossed a quill at Tate, which caught her in the eye. Tate blinked with a start, and cat-hissed playfully at her, causing Ron and Harry to look up in confusion.

"I hate it when she does that," groaned Harry. Ron chuckled, and took Harry's bishop.

"You dirty bugger, I'll have you for that one."

----------

"Wake up, Ron!" shouted Harry. "It's Christmas!" Ron moaned and turned over, pulling a pillow over his head.

"Go 'way," he whined, "it's not even light out yet." Ron's bed was tousled by a tall boy throwing himself upon it.

"Get up, Ron!" Harry pounced on him mercilessly. Ron thrashed around violently in his bed, attempting to rid himself of his rude and boisterous roommate. The door to their room swung open, and Hermione padded in.

"Happy Christmas, boys!" she sang cheerfully.

"Happy Christmas, Hermione," smiled Harry. "Got all your presents with you, d'ya?" Hermione shook her head.

"They're all down by the tree. I thought we'd have a common room Christmas this year." Her eyes fell on Ron. "Goodness, Ron, get up already! There are loads of presents for you downstairs!" At this, Ron shot up, an expectant look on his face. He leapt out of bed, seized his robe, and exited the room at lightening speed.

She giggled as she watched him zip down the stairs, nearly tripping over his long legs. She turned to yell further at Harry, but found he was already standing in front of her.

"Happy Christmas, love," he grinned, and kissed her swiftly on the lips, before darting around her and down the stairs.

"Brush your teeth, Scruffy!" Hermione shouted after him.

Once downstairs, Hermione settled herself comfortably on the inviting, overstuffed couch. Still blinking the sleep out of her eyes, she snuggled among the pillows and sighed contentedly. No sooner had she closed her eyes, than Ron had thrown a rather large parcel at her. It struck her in the stomach and she caught her breath.

"You're a bastard, Ron," she growled at the redheaded boy, who was completely ignoring her as he ripped open his first present.

"Blimey, Harry, thanks!" Ron was beaming at the book in his lap - _Fantastic Keepers of the 21st Century and How To Steal Their Moves_. Harry smiled, and winked at him. In addition to the book he knew Ron would love, he had also enclosed a year-long subscription for _Witches After Hours_, tucked carefully inside the front cover. Without another moment's hesitation, Harry and Hermione dove onto the pile of gaily wrapped gifts and began tearing them open unabatedly.

Twenty minutes later, all three had finished opening their presents, and were basking comfortably in the pleasant warmth of the fire, eating ridiculously large amounts candy.

"What do we call this rush?" asked Hermione, who lay on her back, playing idly with the cuff of her pajama sleeve.

"Post Christmas high, I think," giggled Ron, who was nearly incapacitated from all the chocolate he had consumed. Harry draped himself over Hermione's thighs and began pelting Ron with Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans.

"Ha! There's a chuffin' toe jam flavor for you," crowed Harry as a grayish colored bean struck Ron between the eyes.

"You bloody wanker!" The air was filled with beans, and Hermione pulled a pillow over her head and waited patiently for the fight to end. She thought briefly of Tate, who had elected to remain in her room for Christmas, sorting through the very odd things her family had sent her. Hermione's thoughts were interrupted as Harry tried desperately to wriggle under the pillow with her, as Ron had graduated from throwing beans to throwing whatever was within reach. Harry yelped as Hermione shoved him out from under her pillow and a sprig of mistletoe bounced off of his head. Hermione shook in laughter from underneath her pillow fortress, when she was suddenly aware that things had become quiet.

_Oh shit,_ she mentally shouted, and scrabbled up to escape, but she was too late. Harry and Ron leapt on her and began to tickle her mercilessly.

"Oh god, stop!" she wheezed, gasping for breath between laughs. She squirmed futilely, and squealed in a high-pitched giggles. Ron and Harry were dissolving in their own laughter, when the door to the girls' dormitory flew open and Tate came streaking out, running as fast as she could go. Speechless, Harry, Ron, and Hermione stared at her in slow motion, all seeing the footstool in front of the sprinting girl, but too shocked to say anything. Harry thought before anyone else, and cast a quick spell on the footstool.

Tate nailed it full force, the velvet covered edge catching her in the shins. Her arms went straight out to her sides, and she looked like an oversized albatross attempting flight, her black dressing gown sailing out behind her. She hit the ground and somersaulted twice into a sitting position, mere inches from the crackling fireplace. She paid no mind to her unceremonious arrival, and did not even bother to toss an annoyed glance in Harry's direction (though she knew he had been the one to cast a sticking charm on the footstool, thus causing her fall).

Harry and Ron were choking back laughs, but Hermione remembered her manners. She fixed a murderous gaze on Harry, who still had his wand out. He grinned at her innocently and shrugged. "Tate, are you ok?" Tate threw up a hand to silence her and stared at her watch.

"Three...two...one..." There was a loud pop and a shower of sparks issued from the fireplace. Hermione blinked, and saw the head of an unfamiliar girl, with curly blonde hair and eyes like Tate's, floating in the fire. Tate, however, clearly recognized her, because she covered her mouth with her hand to muffle her delighted squeal.

"Megan!" she gushed. "How? Who? HOW?" The girl in the fireplace laughed.

"That white-haired man. He's here now. God, it's good to see you! We miss you so much over here!" Tate pressed her knuckles to her lips, and suddenly became very interested in scrubbing her eyes.

"You have no idea how much I miss you guys. Minky misses you, too." Meghan's face lit up, and Tate grinned widely. She turned toward the stairs, and shouted for her dog. Harry grimaced - whenever she yelled her voice seemed to drop a few octaves, and he found it more than a little disturbing. Barely three seconds later, the constantly over-excited pup was bounding down the stairs, and streaked across the room in a flash of white-gold. Tate barely caught her before she leapt straight into the fire to lick Meghan. Minky whined and struggled in her arms, desperately trying to get a taste of the other girl.

"I swear she feeds that dog speed," murmured Harry. Tate jerked her head up, having briefly forgotten they were there. She looked wildly toward Hermione, and gestured frantically at her.

"Megan, this is my roommate, Hermione," Tate threw an arm around Hermione as she joined her at the fireplace. "And this is Ron Weasley and Harry Potter." Harry and Ron came to stand behind the two kneeling girls. "Guys, this is my sister, Meghan."

"Pleased to meet ya," grinned Meghan, flashing brilliant white teeth at the three. Hermione smiled broadly at the younger girl in the fire. She couldn't have been more than fourteen. There was no distinct resemblance between her and her sister.

"What's happening down there," asked Tate, "I hope things are all cleared up?" Meghan shrugged, and nodded slightly.

"People still ask about you," she said tentatively, and then looked pointedly at Ron, Harry, and Hermione.

"Let's go get some food, shall we?" suggested Hermione, as she leapt to her feet and took each boy by the arm. They were silent, staring at the girl in the fireplace, waiting for her to say something else. Hermione dragged them both to the portrait hole, turning only to smile at Tate, who mouthed 'thank you' to her. Hermione nodded, and shoved her two best friends through the hole. Tate watched them go, and then returned her attention to her beloved sister. Unable to hold back her emotions now that she was alone, tears began to stream silently down her cheeks as she reached forward to grab her sister's hand, forgetting momentarily about the fire that encased her sister. She managed to graze Meghan's face before wincing and yanking her hand out of the flames.

"Tatums, don't cry - you'll be home before you know it!" Tate smiled weakly, tears flowing in quiet, incessant rivers, and shook her head sadly.

"No I won't, and you know it. I can't go back, not after what happened. It's not safe. Y'all will have to come to me."

"Sweet!" shouted Meghan, "I've always wanted to go to England!" She turned her head, "Hey, Mom! Did you hear that? We're going to England for the whole summer!" Tate shook with giggles as she heard her mother shout back at her sister that there was not a chance in blue Hell she was subjecting herself to British weather. "Oh, shut up Mom, you're going and that's that," concluded Meghan, turning back to Tate. Her expression became rather grave.

"Now, listen, I know you're going to hate this, cause you have that whole...you know, superstition thing about people lying about death."

"It's not supersti--"

"Yah, whatever loser," interrupted Meghan. "Anyways, the jail was pretty reluctant to release a statement concerning the fact that one of the maximum security wings was not only breached, but you disappeared without a trace, so..."

"So what?" Tate asked impatiently, as her sister searched for the right words.

"...So, the white haired guy...memory charmed..." She turned her head around again, looking at someone Tate could not see behind her. "Memory charmed, right? That's what you did?" Tate heard someone reply to her, and Meghan turned back around. "Right - so the white haired guy memory charmed them, and...umm...tolemyoweredead."

"He told them I was WHAT?"

Meghan gritted her teeth. "Dead." She cringed a bit, waiting for Tate to explode. But, remarkably, Tate didn't flip out - she actually laughed. Meghan looked at her, pleasantly confused.

"I thought you'd like that," she giggled, "Actually, no, I thought you'd freak out. But think of it this way! Now, I can go to that whore of a school and scare the shit out of those lousy bastards that put you through this. They'll think you're haunting them!" She and Tate giggled madly, but they quickly dropped the sore subject of their old school (Meghan had transferred to a different muggle school for the remainder of her freshman year) and began chattering about anything and everything.

"So, tell me about that gorgeous redhead," purred Meghan. Tate blushed and shrugged. Meghan's eyes flashed.

"Nothing special about him. The speccy kid behind him was Harry Potter."

"Um, who?" Meghan arched an eyebrow. "Am I supposed to know who he is?"

Tate laughed. "No, I guess not. He's a big deal over here though."

"Yah? You mean in your _wizarding world_?" Meghan put a singsong spin on 'wizarding world', and then laughed uproariously at herself. Tate snorted and rolled her eyes.

"Yes, in the _wizarding world_! God, you're a freak! Anyways, I don't think he likes me much."

"Ah, who gives? If you're going for universal appeal, you'll be waiting forever. Especially you." Tate laughed. "It's a shame anyways, though - he's not bad-looking at all! Tell me more about the redhead!" Tate blushed, grinned slightly, and assured Meghan that there was nothing special about him indeed.

"I know exactly what that means! You are the worst liar in history! Have you set him on fire yet?" Now Tate scowled at her.

"No, I have not. I haven't set anything or anyone on fire since I've been here."

"I didn't mean literally," Meghan said soothingly, "I was just joking." She cocked her head at Tate, who was picking at a spot on the ground, looking victimized. "You're too sensitive when it comes to that. You need to learn to let it roll off you."

"I can, unless you say it!"

"Alright, fine! I'm sorry I called you a pyro!"

"Hey!" Tate glared at her in mock fury. Meghan continued to employ an expression of virtuous innocence.

Tate giggled, and was thoughtful for a moment. "I bet you'd dig Malfoy. He's blonde." Meghan rolled her tongue, while Tate raised her wand and summoned her digital camera. She calibrated it briefly, and settled on the desired picture. She handed the camera to Meghan with fire tongs, wincing slightly as the fire came dangerously close it. Meghan seized it, and looked at the image of Tate and Malfoy who were glaring at each other. Tate had forced Draco into taking the picture days earlier, when sheer boredom had coerced her into taking her camera around the school after she had fiddled with it enough to acclimate it to the magical environment. His anger over being tricked into having his picture snapped came out in the now magical film.

"You just elbowed him in the ribs, Tate! Ha-ha, he tripped you!"

"He what! That prissy bastard!"

Meghan continued to gaze at the picture, in which Draco was laughing at Tate who was flipping him the middle finger as she struggled to her feet. "Oh, I'm _definitely_ coming to England. That boy is hot. By the way, you have him in a headlock now, if it makes you feel any better."

Tate laughed, and they continued chatting animatedly.

----------

Hermione, Harry, and Ron arrived in front of the fruit painting, and Ron tickled the pear that blocked the entrance to the kitchen.

"Oh bollocks," murmured Harry, "I forgot Dobby's Christmas present."

"Me too," agreed Ron.

"Oh, go on," pushed Hermione, "you can bring it to him later. Let's give her at least a little time with her family."

The pear finally quit swearing colorfully through its laughter, and the door swung open, allowing the three into the magnificent kitchen Hogwarts had to offer. They stepped through and were met with dozens of eager house elves. Hermione clucked her tongue in annoyance. Several minutes and butterbeers later, Hermione, Harry, and Ron were gathered around the hearth, Dobby seated on a footstool in front of them.

"I didn't know she had any family," Ron said absentmindedly, breaking the pleasant silence.

"Well, of course she has family, Ron! What, did you think she just materialized from the streets?"

Ron shrugged. "I don't know, she never talks about them. Even when I asked, she just glossed over the question, like I'd never even asked it." Harry nodded.

"She doesn't seem like the type to be close to family," he mused. "Seems like a total loner. Plus, its obvious she had no friends at her muggle school." Ron nodded. Hermione had eventually told him of her knowledge of Tate's past. It just didn't seem right for her to conceal information from him.

"Well, she most certainly is," Hermione said airily. "She's incredibly close to her family. They are everything to her, and I know its killing her to be away from them."

"Yah, and how do you know that, Hermione?" Ron smiled, testing her patience.

"I just do," she said dismissively. Try as they might, Harry and Ron could not get anymore out of her. Not that it would have done any good - Hermione knew as much about Tate's family as they did. But lately, she was feeling an incredible sense of homesickness whenever around Tate. It most certainly did not belong to her - she was never homesick, as Hogwarts was her home away from home. It just made sense to be coming from Tate.

Harry was thoughtful for a long moment. The idea that Tate came from a close-knit family seemed to give her a more human appeal, and a tiny bit of his suspicion melted away.

When Hermione, Harry, and Ron returned, nearly forty-five minutes later, Tate was on her feet, bellowing at her sister in a high-pitched French accent. She took no notice that they had entered the room.

"You're mother was a lizard!"

Meghan was cackling madly, and shouting back at her in the same ridiculous French dialect. Tate seized a small box of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans, and began pelting her sister with them. A thin stream of water shot from the fire place and hit Tate. Craning her head to get a better look, Hermione could see that Meghan had a silver apparatus attached to a green tube in her hand, steadily producing a constant stream of water.

"No fair!" Tate shouted, seizing her wand and sending a small fountain of pink champagne at the fire. The stream of water intensified, overpowering the weak champagne burst and completely soaking Tate's dressing gown as she howled in laughter and held her hand uselessly against the endless barrage of freezing water.

"Tate, I've got to go!" Meghan shouted over the roar of the hose. The water tapered off, and Tate's smile melted. "I'm keeping this camera! I'll send it back to you in a bit. That Owl Host or whatever thing is weird, but we're getting used to it. We all love you! Merry Christmas!" Her sister's head flickered, and disappeared. Tate was left standing, soaking wet, staring at the fire.

"Merry Christmas," she whispered to the dying fire. She took three deep breaths, still oblivious to the presence of her three schoolmates. The fire crackled loudly and ignited anew. For a split second, Hermione could have sworn it flickered bright green.

A spun sugar Christmas tree slipped from Ron's arm and clattered to the floor. Tate's head jerked in their direction. Sheepishly, Ron bent over to pick it up, but in his haste, he lost his grip on the rest of the tasty sweets he was cradling. He swore softly as they all hit the floor. Tate deadpanned, and silently prayed that the spontaneous rekindling of the fire had gone unnoticed among the three. It had not.

"Thanks for giving me so much time."

"No problem," said Harry. "Don't you think you should put on something dry?" Tate shrugged, and waved her wand, drying her robe and pajamas. She flopped down on the couch, and peered up at her schoolmates.

"Merry Christmas, guys," she said softly, smiling up at them. She raised her wand.

"_Accio_." Three packages, wrapped in bright orange paper flew out of the girls dormitory and into her arms.

"Harry..." she held a package out to him. "Ron..." Ron took a parcel from her. "And Hermione." Hermione grinned and accepted the orange package from Tate. The three settled themselves into opening their gifts.

"I asked Hagrid about what y'all were into, and he told me, but I was a bit unable to get those…things, as I have no clue how to go about getting them. So, I got Niels and my sister to send some things up that I thought might be of interest to you guys."

Harry smiled genuinely at her, and, for a brief moment, she seemed almost surprised. She was used to Harry eyeing her with suspicion. He gazed down at the book she had given him. It was a paperback book, entitled "The Delicate Grace of Moving One's Hand" and written by Timothy Leary. Ron had received two books, "Brave New World" and "The Doors of Perception", both by Aldous Huxley. He looked at the two books curiously, turning one over and reading the back cover. Hermione beamed when she opened her own.

"Oooh, thank you Tate! I love books! Are these both muggle-written?" Tate smiled, and shook her head.

"One of them is," she indicated the book with an odd scene, containing a cat enclosed in a box, a strange looking vial, and a hammer on the cover, "And the other is not." Hermione looked at the two books she had received.

"The search for Schrödinger's cat," she read aloud.

"Thought you might enjoy reading up on what's new in the muggle world," Tate cut in. Hermione smiled broadly - muggle science was still science, and anything school worthy was immediately loved by Hermione. The other book she had received, however, was ancient looking. It was dusty, and bound in lizard skin. There were burn marks in places, and the pages were yellowed and stiff. There was no title.

"What's this one called," Hermione inquired, her eyes never leaving the book in her hands.

"'The Blessed Few'", replied Tate. Hermione looked up and met Tate's piercing gaze. "Definitely read that," Tate smiled, "it's worth your while." Hermione felt a trembling sensation of excitement build in the base of her spine. The book was surprisingly light yet at the same time remarkably heavy. _Heavy with power_, her conscience whispered. She opened the front cover, and drew her breath in slightly when she read the author's name.

She gently traced a finger over the embossed lettering. _Niels K. Boltzmann_.


	4. Library Scandal

At the start of the spring term, everyone had forgotten the new addition. Their new schedule postulated their first class as Muggle Studies, the newly required course (originally an elective), as first thing after breakfast, Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. They had it with the Slytherins. The professor, interestingly enough, was a Muggle herself. She was an ambassador in Britain - one of the very few Muggles aware of the existence of the magical community. For thirty years she had helped to orchestrate and maintain peace between the two communities, as well as keeping the secrecy of the magical one. Dumbledore had thought her to be a very wise choice, although the Ministry of Magic disagreed loudly.

The Gryffindors filed into class and took their seats. Their new professor, Professor Hess, welcomed them in. She was a tiny, bubbly woman with very curly blond hair. When they had all taken their seats, she introduced herself, and went over the important rules with the class: no skipping, no making fun of anyone, no cheating, no discrimination.

"So," she said cheerfully, "How many of you come from strictly Muggle families?" Dean, Hermione, and Tate put their hands in the air. Hisses and sneers came from the Slytherins. Professor Hess, however, looked positively delighted.

"Wonderful!" she chirped, clapping her hands, "Some muggle insight from students will be greatly beneficial to the class!" Someone hissed the word "mudblood", but Professor Hess did not hear it.

"Who can tell me the basic differences between magical people and muggles?" As always, Hermione's hand shot in the air. Professor Hess nodded to her.

"Magical people live much longer than muggles, at the very least three times as long as the muggle expected life span. Muggles outnumber the global magic community by several hundred thousand to one. Muggles also cannot see very many things that we can, as our minds are built and function much differently then theirs. The neurochemistry has several distinctions." Professor Hess beamed at her.

"Ten points to Gryffindor." Hermione glowed. "Muggles, as Ms. Granger so graciously told us, have very different neurological make-ups. Now, to many of you, this may sound as though muggles have some sort of intellectual defect. This is not the case at all. Muggle intelligence works on a sliding scale, as does the magical community. Some are highly intelligent, while some are complete dotters." Malfoy snorted and pointed at Neville, who turned pink and looked at the floor. Ron clenched his jaw in anger.

"Peaceful coexistence is only achievable so long as muggles are not aware of the existence of this other world." She swept her arm out in front of her. "Muggles can be extremely dangerous. They possess the power to destroy the entire earth." Several people snorted in disbelief. Hess paid no attention and kept on.

"Now, I'm not trying to say that muggles are the bane of humanity...but let's take a moment to reflect on their most recent past history. Can anyone name some of the recent tragedies?"

Hermione piped up. "World War I and II, the nuclear bomb attack on Hiroshima, the Great Depression, the Holocaust..."

Parvati spoke too. Although she was from a pureblood family, she made it a point to keep up with pressing muggle gossip, particularly of the royal kind (and most particularly, of Prince William). "The death of Princess Diana." Lavender nodded fiercely.

"Slavery," added Dean.

"Terrorism." Tate spoke to the floor, her arms crossed over her chest.

"This class is ridiculous," Pansy whined to Blaise, loud enough for Professor Hess to hear.

"I'm sorry, dear? What was that?" Professor Hess walked right over to Pansy. Pansy looked at her with defiance.

"I said that this class is ridiculous. Muggles are insignificant. Why should we care what they do? It's not like they're in any position to threaten us." The Slytherins began to nod their agreement.

"You don't know what you're talking about, Pansy." Tate said scathingly. Heads turned toward the back of the room, where Tate sat between Dean and Hermione.

"Power is nothing when you're facing a crowd of people that hate you. A crowd of scared Muggles could easily pose more of a threat than this Voldemort character I keep hearing people mention." An echo of whispers followed this statement. Pansy glared at Tate, her eyes flashing bright blue in fury. Professor Hess, however, was intrigued.

"You must be Ms. Blackeberry," she said, consulting her list. Tate nodded. "Do continue."

"One Muggle," Tate went on, "Could probably handle something as shocking as the discovery of a magical person, because a single person is smart, disciplined, and calm. People, however, are hysterical, stupid, and dangerous. They don't like anything that violates the norm. They want their perfect little society." Everyone was staring at her. "No one believes what they see every day. And when they see something they don't understand, their first and only instinct is to panic. And when panic is in great numbers, it can lead to spectacularly disastrous results." The words rolled off of Tate's tongue as though she had rehearsed this speech a thousand times before. Professor Hess was nodding fervently.

"I couldn't have put it better, my dear. Has anyone here ever been caught doing something magical by a Muggle?" Tate, Harry, Ron, and Parvati put their hands in the air.

"Yes, Mr. Potter?"

"Well, I've mostly been caught doing magic I shouldn't by my aunt and uncle - I live with them during summer hols. And Ron and I were seen flying a car in second year." Professor Hess's brow furrowed.

"I remember that," she seethed, "That took weeks to sort out!" Harry went quite pale.

Professor Hess continued to twine on about the terrible consequences and ordeals that accompanied racism. Hermione had to admit, it was without a doubt the most engaging lesson she could ever recall having during her brief stint with Muggle Studies during her third year. Finally, a professor had decided to forego all the boring mechanics of muggle life, and directly address human nature. If the Slytherins couldn't be swayed by a class as involved and clear as this, then they truly must have been born without souls, Hermione thought to herself. She was very sorry when the class finally ended, and looked forward to it enthusiastically as she made her way to Charms, next to a silent Tate.

"Hogsmeade forms over here!" Professor Flitwick squeaked when Charms Class ended, as he teetered precariously on six books behind his desk. "The Hogsmeade trip is on Saturday, and if you have not turned in your form, you will not go!" Students piled their forms on his desk as they left. With a sense of pride, Harry placed his permission form, signed by his godfather Sirius, carefully on the top of the stack. Hermione grinned at him knowingly. He got the same swelling of happiness every time something in writing connected him to Snuffles. Hermione neatly placed her form on top of Harry's, and barely ducked in time to miss Ron's sweeping hand as he tossed his form haphazardly toward Flitwick's desk. He missed, of course, and the form floated to the floor.

"Blimey, mate," grinned Seamus, "No wonder you're not a Chaser."

Ron snorted. "Shut it, Finnigan. You've got Keeper envy." Seamus pulled a rude face, punched Ron in the shoulder, and scurried out of the room before Ron could get a long arm around his scrawny Irish neck. Dean and Tate swept by and tossed their own signed permission forms on the desk, then returned to their animated conversation about legendary rock groups of the early seventies. Harry eyed Tate's form suspiciously.

_Marcus and Grainne Blackeberry_

"Her mom's name is Grain?" Hermione glanced at him, confused, and read the form herself. Chuckling, she whacked Harry on the back of the head.

"You prat," she teased, "It's pronounced 'grahn-ya'. Trust you to screw up anything and everything Irish." Harry blushed as Ron laughed heartily. Hermione would never let him forget that, in second year, he had misspelled Seamus's name on his potions paper "Shaymus". Correction, no one would let him forget that. Harry shuddered at the memory, and quickly changed the subject.

"So, first spring trip to Hogsmeade," Harry said loudly as they exited the classroom, "Should be great fun."

"Yeah," grumbled Ron, "We've only got to a walk a mile through a frozen tundra."

"Oh, Ron," Hermione admonished, "It won't be all bad. Think of it as a Winter Wonderland."

"If you say anything like that again, ever, I will personally perform a severing charm on your vocal cords, are we clear?" Hermione glared at Ron.

"There is nothing wrong, Mr. Weasley, with trying to look on the bright side. It's not my fault if your glass is always empty."

"That's it!" shouted Ron, throwing up his hands, "I am tired of this proverbial glass!" He seized Hermione's shoulders and shook her. "There is no glass! There never was!" Hermione laughed now, and roughly shoved him away.

"And you are ruining my fun!"

----------

Early Saturday morning, Hermione awoke to Tate shaking her gently. "C'mon Hermione, wake up. Time to go shopping, get up!" Hermione rolled over, exhausted from a night of ridiculous wakefulness. She flailed an arm in Tate's direction, connected with something, and rolled over, satisfied.

"Go 'way...too tired...your fault...leave me 'lone!" Tate snorted, very annoyed.

"Last chance to get up, Hermione."

Hermione debated foggily for a minute. Necessity took over. "Fuck off!"

Tate gasped dramatically, trying to cover her smile. Never once during the hours they spent together, whether they were sleeping, eating, studying - not once during her entire tenure at Hogwarts (granted, this had only been about four weeks) had she had Hermione use that particular word. ._She must really be serious. This could turn ugly, if I'm not careful_. Rubbing her eye (where Hermione had so thoughtfully smacked her), she chewed her lip thoughtfully, and decided on a no-fail antic her brothers used to pull. She rose from Hermione's bed, and backed up to the door.

"This is...really your last chance this time!" she shouted threateningly, "No turning back! You've got till three to get your worthless ass out of bed." Hermione pulled a pillow over her head. "One!" Tate gave her a generous five second gap between numbers. "Two!" Hermione raised her hand from the underneath the scarlet duvet, and gave her the finger. Tate v in indignation. "THREE!"

Tate sprinted towards Hermione's bed and took a running jump. She landed precisely where she'd aimed. Right on top of Hermione. Hermione lay still for a moment, and then came alive - writhing and lashing out madly, like an angry shark caught in a trap. Tate rolled off her quickly, and threw open the curtains, letting in the pleasant morning sunshine.

"Fine, FINE!" screeched Hermione, "I'm bloody up! See?" Tate smiled arrogantly, causing Hermione to scowl furiously at her. "It's your fault I'm so knackered," Hermione continued to seethe, "You kept me up all night with your ridiculous nightmares. I can't even begin to recount all the different things you said! I put a silencing charm on your bed curtains, and...somehow...you even managed to shout through that! I finally had to put a silencing charm on _you_!" Tate rolled her eyes.

"Don't I know it," she grumbled, "I couldn't figure out for the longest time why no one was paying attention to me when I spoke to them at breakfast."

Hermione sniffed loudly. "Good. It's the least you deserve." Groaning in annoyance one final time for good measure, Hermione hauled herself out of bed, to the showers. Tate watched Hermione's huffy exit, and muttered to herself as she descended the cold stone stairwell to the common room. Hermione's comments concerning her nightmares bothered her greatly.

_I've been working so hard on keeping those under control_, Tate mentally berated herself. _Obviously not hard enough._ She was so lost in her thoughts that, as she pushed open the door separating the girl's dormitory from the common room, she barely noticed as she stepped right into Lavender, knocking the poor girl over. "Sorry, Lav," she said mechanically, reaching down to pull Lavender to her feet.

"No problem, Bigfoot," hissed Lavender, giggling at her own joke. Tate sighed, steadying her already fraying temper.

"You get one, today. Just one. And I'm being generous. Call me that again, and you will sorely miss your own height, Shorty, cause I'll make sure you're no less than eight feet tall when you walk back into this room." Lavender glared at her in playful competition. She had begun calling Tate 'bigfoot' at the start of spring term, mostly because Tate towered more than a foot above Lavender (who stood at a ridiculously tiny 4'11 - on good days, 5'0), and she had been completely relentless at keeping it up. Tate had made it abundantly clear that no one else would be permitted to call her that name as she completely detested it. Harry made the mistake of referring to her as 'bigfoot' once in the heat of an argument. She had risen from her chair, in complete fury, and hexed him with an interesting, yet annoying charm that only Hermione knew of. She herself had been furious with Harry for resorting to petty insults when he could not come up with a decent retort, and had refused to perform the counter-curse on his feet (both of which, had become club feet).

----------

Ginny skipped excitedly down the snow-covered path that led to Hogsmeade, one gloved hand linked around Tate's arm.

"Good lord, Ginny, where's the fire?" Tate asked affably. Ginny giggled gleefully. The school sanctioned trips to Hogsmeade were among her favorite events of all time. She was nearly bursting at the seams with excitement - Calypso's Cutting Edge (so called for it's claim to be on the 'cutting edge' of fashion) was having it's annual holiday sale. Armed with her generous allowance (money had been much less tight since Fred and George had unveiled _Weasley's Wizard Wheezes_ in Diagon Alley), Ginny planned to make a killing at the highly anticipated sale. Tate shivered slightly.

"Heaven's, Tate, you've been here for nearly a month, and you're still not used to the cold?" Tate shook her head, and drew her cloak around her more tightly. Ginny pointed to a large glade of trees. "Just beyond that is Hogsmeade. We'll be there in no time." The two girls strode along, the frigid wind turning their cheeks and nose pink.

When they finally came in sight of Hogsmeade, Tate gasped in amazement. The tiny village reminded her of the beautiful snow globes her father would bring back from Switzerland and Belgium. It was like a scene straight out of a dream. She slowed her step, taking in the cosmic beauty of a town that reflected something she had only seen in her wildest dreams. She drew in a deep breath, savoring the cold fresh air, and quickened her pace to keep up with Ginny, who was nearly sprinting in her anxiousness to reach Calypso's before Lavender and Parvati.

Harry watched Tate with suspicion nearly all the time now. Furtively, he glanced toward her as she took in the view of Hogsmeade for the first time. Noting her incredulous expression, Harry debated whether or not she was feigning. If she was, she was a damned good actor.

----------

Once in Calypso's, Ginny nearly dove into the rack marked "Holiday Spree". Practically trembling in exhilaration, she squealed in delight when she came across a trendy little green halter top, dusted with glitter. Tate, rifling through clothes on the opposite side of the rack, came across a rather conservative black jumper.

"Um, Ginny?"

"Mmhm?" Ginny peered at her over the rack.

"Which coin is the galleon? It's the gold one, right?" Ginny nodded, and stretched out her hand. Tate handed her the top, and Ginny glanced at the price tag.

"Ooh, this is a rip off, this is. Sixteen galleons for _this_? The store manager must be mad!"

"So, that's expensive? I wonder how much that comes to in dollars."

Ginny shrugged. "Don't know. I've never needed to change money before." She smiled wistfully. "My dad would know. He positively adores muggle knick-knacks. Actually, Fred and George might know as well. They know lots of useful muggle tricks."

"Your family sounds so interesting," Tate mused, "I can't tell you how many times I've heard of Fred and George in passing. Never met them myself, of course, but everyone seems to know them."

Ginny laughed. "Well, they would, wouldn't they? Fred and George terrorized Hogwarts with their pranks. I'm to meet them at the Gallant Knight half past three. Would you like to come?" Tate nodded, and fished something out of the rack.

"Dude, this is so you. Try this on." She tossed Ginny a pair of garish vinyl trousers adorned with ripped denim and silk. Ginny grimaced at the ridiculous concoction.

"This ought to be burned." Tate cracked up, and nodded her agreement.

After Ginny had selected a meager three quarters of what was displayed on the racks (at least half the trousers and skirts, and most of the halter tops), she slipped into one of the dressing rooms and began trying on the multitudes of jaunty clothes she had chosen. She pulled a crimson silk top over her head, and wiggled into a skin tight, black velvet skirt. She threw open the curtain and stepped out to appraise her selection. She briefly evaluated her outfit, and tossed the skirt in the 'must have' pile, and returned the shirt to the rack. Back in her dressing room, she chose a pinstriped white shirt and paired it with a scandalously short, pleated, black miniskirt. Sweeping out of the dressing room, she spun around, admiring the adorable combination. Tate exited her own dressing room, wearing the black jumper she had selected earlier. Ginny glanced at her and immediately decided it was far too conservative for a teenage girl. She sent Tate back into her own dressing room and refused to allow her out until Tate had put on something more age-appropriate.

"Age appropriate?" Tate huffed, "You can't even call these clothes! They don't have enough fabric!" She looked despairingly at the array of clothing that nearly filled Ginny's dressing room.

"Nonsense," Ginny said briskly, "They're the height of fashion."

"For who, streetwalkers?"

"Oh, go on, you!"

"Haha, just kidding around, don't flip out." Tate discarded her jumper, and grabbed a top at random. She tried to pull it over her head only to discover that the shirt didn't work that way. It was meant to cover the chest, leaving the most of the stomach and all of the back exposed. Swearing to herself, she fumbled with the collar clasp and flimsy little strings. Shoving aside the curtain, she came out to face her tormentor. The one and only fashion fanatic, Ginny Weasley.

"Ooh!" shrieked Ginny, "It's perfect!" Tate peered at her reflection. The top was a pretty iridescent ivory hue, embroidered with lilies of metallic silver and gold threads. It came only to her waistline, where the fabric drew together in a triangular fashion, stopping slightly below her navel.

"I can't wear this!" protested Tate, "You can see too much!"

"Rubbish," insisted Ginny, "You will buy that, if I have anything to say about it!"

Tate smiled, but very weakly. "Ginny," she said sadly, "Look." She turned around, and Ginny's eyes fell upon the purple angular scar she had seen on Tate's back the night of the Yule Ball. "See why I can't wear this?"

Ginny's face softened. Without hesitation, she grasped the hem of the pinstriped shirt and drew it up. A long, sickle shaped scar ran from her ribcage to her hip. Tate's mouth opened, slightly. "It doesn't stop me from wearing things like that," said Ginny, "Don't let it stop you." Tate stared a moment longer. Her mind was running at a hundred miles an hour.

_How could you have been so stupid? As if you were the only one to ever bear a scar. Grow up, Tate, geez!_ She shook her head briefly, silencing her furious conscience. She broke into a wide grin.

"Alright then. I'll buy it." Ginny smiled in satisfaction.

----------

Harry stood at the bar in the Gallant Knight, waiting patiently for the rather intimidating barkeep, who happened to be a massive ogre, to mix the two martinis he had ordered. Gazing languidly around the dimly lit pub, he noticed Susan Bones and Justin Fitch-Fletchley in deep conversation at one the tables.

_Wonder when they got together_, he mused to himself. Justin looked up and saw him. Harry waved at him, smiling. Justin grinned, and gave him a quick salute before turning back to Susan. Harry's gaze lingered momentarily on Susan. Once a chubby, redheaded imp, the girl had truly blossomed into a beautiful young lady. She radiated poise, and even Harry himself was not immune to her charms.

_Good for Justin_. Justin deserved as much. He was kind and intelligent. Since second year, after he was de-petrified, he had apologized to Harry so sincerely, that Harry had been thoroughly moved. In his mind, Justin was a great guy. His thoughts were interrupted by the ogre, who prodded Harry in the shoulder with a greenish finger the size of a German sausage, anxious for his pay. Harry gave him two galleons, and left one on the counter as tip. Seizing the martinis, he carefully made his way back to the corner table, where Hermione waited.

"Here you are, love," he said as he handed one of the crystalline glasses to her.

"Thank you." She accepted her drink, and placed it on the table. "So, exactly where did you hear about this place?" Harry laughed and shrugged in the annoyingly innocent manner only he could pull off. Hermione pursed her lips and stared at him, but he refused to budge. It was a highly kept secret, shared only among the worthy, as Fred and George had stipulated when they decided to share the wondrous secret with Ron and Harry. Hermione sighed, and delicately swirled her martini with the tiny swizzle stick. She lifted the swizzle stick to her mouth and gently seized of the olives skewered on it with her teeth. Harry blushed furiously, and grinned at her.

"It drives me crazy when you do that."

"I can't imagine why," she smiled, "It's just an olive."

"And hopefully, you never will. It's one of those...things you girls do. You don't even realize you're doing it, but let me tell you...it drives us mad." Hermione giggled, and sipped her drink.

"So...I saw you staring at Tate today." Harry lifted his face toward hers and saw disapproval in her eyes. "Do you realize that, since Christmas, she's completely avoided you? I've no doubt she thinks you hate her. I still can't believe you tripped her with that footstool stunt. That was so unlike you." Harry shrugged, and became very interested in his martini. "Harry! Honestly, the least you could do is pay attention to me."

"Why, though?" inquired Harry, "It's not a big deal. It was just a joke!"

"It _is_ a big deal, Harry!" Harry looked at her sarcastically. "Ok, maybe it's not a life-threatening deal, but go on, Harry. She's new, and confused, and homesick. And she's never been anything but nice to you, and you treat her as though she were a ticking time bomb!"

"Look," Harry said, rather sharply, "I don't dislike her." Hermione narrowed her eyes in disbelief. "I don't! Now really, I don't know why...she's just not my cup of tea." Hermione eyed him suspiciously.

"If you think that there really is something dark about her, Harry, then you need to tell me."

Harry swirled the crystalline glass. "For one thing, it's completely abnormal for a person to have so many scars."

"I hardly think you are in any position to judge anyone on scars, Harry," Hermione said snappishly and looked pointedly at the conspicuous lightening bolt emblazoned on his forehead. Harry rolled his eyes at her.

"That's different and you know it," he said. "She looks like a soldier ought to look, fresh out of battle. I know you've noticed too. You don't get scars like that from pure clumsiness." He sighed and took a great gulp of his drink. "It's just not normal."

"None of us are normal, Harry. It's right daft of you to go judging her on a few scars," she said with a dismissive wave of her hand.

"That is not the point!" He slapped the table in emphasis, causing Hermione to jump slightly. "There aren't just a few! Every time I look closely at her, there's a new scar I haven't noticed before. Have you seen her hands! They're bloody covered with them! It's like she rubbed them on a cheese grater!" Hermione raised an eyebrow, realizing that, in all likelihood, broken glass had probably caused the extensive injuries. Discounting, of course, the long scar across her palm.

"Now, I've never seen her legs," continued Harry, "but what's betting there's more on them? And don't tell me you haven't noticed the one on her wrist! She's been suicidal before, which means she's totally unstable. And her other hand too! What the bloody hell happened there, right across her palm? They've all got to be self-inflicted. That's the only explanation there is."

"Oh, so she stabbed herself in the back, did she?" Hermione declined to comment on the palm scar, as she knew that had been...in a very odd way...self-inflicted.

Harry faltered for a moment. "No...but...now see here, people don't just stab other people for fun! I'm betting someone was scared of her. Maybe she's a vampire."

"Oh, of course she must be!" exclaimed Hermione, "That would explain so many things! Like why she has a reflection, adores the sun, keeps her nails short, and wears an earring shaped like a cross!"

"Oh, bloody well give over. There's something else. I know there is."

"You're wrong, Harry," seethed Hermione, "I'll not go into details. But you are so very wrong." Harry glared at her.

"Then tell me why, Hermione!"

"I can't," she said simply, her eyes never leaving his. "I promised her that I wouldn't, and I intend to keep that promise." Harry snorted, and waved a hand.

"How do you know she's not lying?"

"I just know." Hermione was defiant. For some reason, although she could certainly see why Tate unsettled a lot of people (Harry was not the only one who had expressed discomfort about the newest Gryffindor), she knew in her bones that Tate was not evil in anyway. But for some reason, she couldn't put it into words. "You'll just have to trust me."

Harry sighed deeply, and stared at his hands. "There's no way you'll elaborate on that?"

Hermione shook her head. Harry noted the adamant gleam in her eyes, and succumbed. "Fine. I'll trust you. But I'm still going to be suspicious. I can't help that."

Hermione's shoulders sagged in defeat. She understood what Harry meant. Sometimes, people just repelled, and for no reason at all. She decided to abandon the subject.

"I'll be right back," she said, and stood abruptly. She brushed past Harry quickly, and made her way to the bar.

"Two shots of vodka, please," Hermione smiled at the offensive looking ogre, who colored deeply, his face turning a shade of forest green, and sprang off to do her bidding. He seized a large bottle of Magical Skyy, and lumbered back toward Hermione. He placed four shot glasses on the counter.

"Wait, but I only ordered two," Hermione protested. The ogre turned his greenish-gray face down to hers and leered at her.

"You did, indeed," he thundered, making Hermione jump back a bit, "But you're the first pretty girl to come in here today. So I must insist you share a shot with me." Hermione smiled widely, hoping her disdain was well concealed. Fortunately for her, the ogre did not notice. He deftly poured four shots, and gently gripped one of the delicate shot glasses between two massive digits, and pushed the other towards Hermione. She accepted it, graciously.

"To your health," roared the ogre. Hermione threw back the shot, and grimaced at the fiery taste. However, it was a fair trade, as the tingling sensation of warmth spread through her veins. She grinned at the barkeep, and left him a generous tip. She returned to the table, and handed Harry a shot glass. He looked up at her in surprise, and grinned.

"Always surprising me, you are," he whispered breathlessly.

"That's me. Ms. Unpredictable. You never know what I've got up my sleeve," she giggled, pulling what she hoped looked like a mysterious face.

"To Ms. Unpredictable," echoed Harry, and they toasted each other.

Perhaps fifteen minutes later, Hermione was distracted as the pub door opened, sending a shard of brilliant white light splicing through the dim, tawdry atmosphere. Four people entered the pub. Once the door had closed, Hermione could make out the faces. Fred and George Weasley had just entered the bar, Tate and Ginny, who each carried several shopping bags, trailing behind them. Fred caught sight of Hermione and Harry, and waved to them. He held up a hand and mouthed that he would be there in a moment.

After the four newcomers had ordered, Fred and George made their way over toward Harry and Hermione, while Tate and Ginny secured a table on the other side of the establishment.

"How's it hanging, Harry?" grinned Fred, as he slapped a hand down on Harry's shoulder. "Short, shriveled, and to the left, as always?"

Harry shook his head laughing. "Trust you to embarrass the lady," he said chivalrously, gesturing toward Hermione.

"Oh, give over," chirped George, "She loves it. Don't ya, Hermione?" He grinned and leaned over to give her a squeeze.

"Of course I do, George," Hermione giggled. Her gaze fell on Ginny and Tate. "What're they doing, all the way over there?" Fred grinned evilly.

"Well, being perfect gentleman, we advised them to get a table over there so that we could privately invite Harry here to join our traveling sex show."

George nodded eagerly.

"Imagine the headlines," he beamed, "Harry Potter, a flock of sheep, and a bag of ice, today only at 3 pm. Six galleons for admission." Harry choked on his drink and laughed uproariously.

"I think six is asking a bit much," said Hermione.

"You're crazy. Performing sheep are hard to come by."

Hermione laughed, and excused herself to go say hi to Ginny and Tate. Taking her glass, she quickly crossed the floor, and settled herself at the table Ginny and Tate occupied. As she took a seat with her two friends, Ron arrived at the door and wandered over to the table Fred, George, and Harry occupied.

"Hello ladies," she said congenially. Tate and Ginny grinned at her. "Gone shopping, have you?"

"Oh yes," Ginny gushed, "I can't believe you didn't come!"

Tate grinned. "I'll have to agree on that, 'Mione." Hermione pursed her lips at the use of her most hated nickname. Tate arched a mischievous eyebrow. "Anyways, _'Mione_, they had the most incredible clothes though. I don't believe I've seen such things at Neiman Marcus before."

"Oh, go on, you!" Ginny interjected, "You've mentioned this Neiman Marcus at least six times today! When will you realize that no one cares! Neiman Marcus does not exist here!"

"Good lord, I know!" said Tate, smiling slightly. "Want a drink, Gin?" Ginny nodded. "Hermione?" Hermione raised her own half full martini, and shook her head. Tate stood, and made for the bar.

"Did you show her Zonko's Joke Shop, then?" Ginny shook her head.

"It was completely mobbed. Not an inch of breathing space in the entire shop. Plus, she started chatting it up with Malfoy, and that called for immediate evacuation." Ginny shivered slightly, and Hermione concurred with a nod. Tate had been very good about keeping her friendship with Malfoy concealed from her Gryffindor friends, as she was aware that it was unsettling to most people. But every once in a while, friendly banter couldn't be avoided, and it tended to grate on certain people's nerves. Most especially, Harry, who always seemed to be in the general vicinity whenever such run-ins occurred.

"Let me see what you've got in that bag there, Ginny. Anything naughty?" Ginny snorted, and handed Hermione one of the many shopping bags piled behind her seat. Hermione shuffled about in the bag, and drew out a gossamer camisole, embroidered with glass beads.

"Not bad, this."

"Not bad? That there is perfection!"

"You overdo yourself, Ginny. I stand corrected." Hermione glanced pointedly at the tiny top in her hand. "Perfection if you like after hours activities. I imagine this will look exceptionally lovely...on Seamus's floor!" Ginny cracked up scandalously, and placed a delicate hand over her mouth. A fleeting image stole through her mind. The gossamer camisole, tossed in a heap next to a luxuriant feather bed. In the bed, she lay stretched out under a sheet, her long limbs wrapped around the muscled Adonis next to her. But when she turned to face her lover, his hair was not sandy blonde, but of a silky white blonde texture. She shivered involuntarily, and was shocked at herself for such a fantasy. She staunchly ignored the white hot shocks that invaded her blood. Tate reappeared and looked curiously at Ginny, bearing two martini glasses filled with a pink liquid.

"Sorry that took so damned long," she said gruffly, gently placing the drinks on the round, stained table. "He didn't know how to make a cosmopolitan. I had to walk him through it." Ginny abandoned her mental scolding of herself, and examined the cocktail in front of her.

"A cosmopolitan?"

Tate nodded, and settled herself into her own chair, still eyeing Ginny with an amused smirk. "It's a kind of martini. Let's see how Mr. Ogre measures up." She swirled her cocktail with her swizzle stick, on which maraschino cherries were speared. Tentatively, she took a sip, as Ginny and Hermione looked on.

"Hello, I'm drunk!" gasped Tate. "It's almost all alcohol!"

"Oh, smashing!" gushed Ginny, and seized her drink, taking a generous sip. She grimaced slightly. "Wow, that's strong. But it's very, very good! I approve." Tate grinned, and saluted her.

"Do tell me, Ginny, if you're of a right mind, where you got the scar on your stomach?" Ginny looked up in mid-sip. She nodded airily, with a dismissive wave of her hand.

"Oh, _that_," she began, "Was a mere circumstance of being in the wrong place at the wrong time." Tate's brow furrowed in confusion - Ginny's statement could mean so many different things. However, she did not have to wonder, because Ginny continued. "It happened was when I was about eight. My father and I were traveling to Romania, to visit Charlie. Mum and the boys were already there, but I stayed back with Dad while he took care of some business to keep him company. On the way to Romania, we were more or less stranded at this one particular train station in Switzerland. We missed our connection, because Dad just _had _to see what was in this manky muggle curio shop. Anyways, I got Appendicitis. There were no mediwizards anywhere nearby, and Dad had no idea whereabouts the Magical Embassy would be located. Long story short, I ended up in a muggle hospital, and they fixed me up their way."

"Wow," said Tate, "That sucks." Ginny shrugged.

"No big deal, really. I would've died if we hadn't of gone there." Hermione sighed and nodded. Sometimes, muggles were the only answer. "OK, your turn. Explain the scar on your back...and the one on your chest. Oh yes, and don't leave out the hands!" Ginny giggled girlishly and, to Hermione's great surprise, so did Tate.

"It's battle scar sharing time, is it?"

Ginny laughed harder, snorting into her drink. "Alright then. The one on my back and chest, those are knife wounds." Ginny paused for a moment, but nodded, her eyes trained on Tate. "As for my hands, they're a veritable roadmap." She laughed at her own joke, and placed her hands palm down on the table. The multitudes of tiny white scars covering her knuckles and many of her long fingers stood out stark white as she purposefully tensed her hands. "All these little ones are from when I was...oh god, I think about five? I can't really remember." Hermione searched her face for some sign of pain of darkness, but there was none. Her expression was almost light. "Anyways," Tate continued, "My great grandmother used to live next to us. When she died, my father told me I could use the windows as target practice with my slingshot, since the house was going to be torn down anyways. So I did. I shattered all the windows, and then I went into the house to gather up my ball bearings -" She was interrupted by Ginny and Hermione, who both erupted in laughter.

"Your what!" gasped Hermione, between guffaws. Ginny was slapping a hand on the table. Tate looked confused for a moment, then put together her last sentence and realized how it must've sounded.

"Oh shut up, you two! Ball bearings are what you use as ammunition!" Ginny was laughing so hard, she nearly fell out of her chair.

"Oh, sure they are!" shrieked Hermione. Tate dipped her fingers in her drink, and flecked the pinkish liquid at Hermione, who shrieked as the droplet struck her in the face and rewarded Tate with kick under the table. Tate began to laugh merrily, and Hermione sensed a distinct difference in the aura that usually surrounded Tate. Some of the intense guarding that was always staunchly hovering about the strange girl, slipped away. Absentmindedly, Hermione patted her hand, and Tate grinned at her, her eyes looking remarkably lighter.

"Anyways, so continue with your ball bearings," giggled Ginny.

"Ah, yes. So I went in the house to get them, and I'm digging around in the broken glass, right. And mind you, she had this huge picture window, so I'm messing about in that particular pile, when..." she faltered for a moment, and eyed her two companions suspiciously. They silenced immediately, expecting her to reveal some new horror.

"Don't laugh," she said, seriously. Hermione cast a sobering glance in her direction.

"My great grandma had this really old furnace, and things could get in it and hide, you know? So, I'm digging around in this huge pile of glass, and I hear this scratching noise in the furnace, right. So I turn around to look, and...this fucking _squirrel_ comes screeching out of the furnace and jumps right on my leg!" Her face began to twitch, as if she were holding back a howl of laughter.

"So, I panicked! I was five! I fell in the glass, and started pulling my way through it, and the whole time this crazy squirrel is trying to nest in my overalls. Needless to say, that cursed squirrel left me marked." She indicated her hands, and flipped them over where more of the tiny white slashes covered her palms, although they were more or less overshadowed by the larger slash on her right palm. Ginny and Hermione stared at her for a long moment, before infectious laughter overtook them. Ginny threw her head back in glee, and their laughter reached a crescendo that caused the entire bar to look in their direction. Harry, Fred, George, and Ron, who had just recently arrived, looked over at their female comrades in confusion.

"Girls. God's oddest creatures."

----------

Hermione sighed, exhaustedly, and put her book down on the table in front of her. It was her copy of _The Blessed Few. _She regarded it with slight irritation.

_Thanks, darling Tate, but if I had wanted a book about Wizard brain and body composition and function, I've got Wizarding Anatomy and Physiology lined up for next year. _The dusty, ancient book practically breathed with a promise of mysterious secrets, and here she was, a hundred pages in, still reading about immensely complex brain cells and networks, and the nerves that corresponded to them. She longed for a table of contents that might possibly explain where this book was going, but there was none. She just _knew _that it couldn't possibly be just another biology oriented book - Tate wouldn't have given her something like that. There was something else to the pages in it, there just had to be. She could feel it. The book itself was entirely handwritten, complete with scratch-outs and extensive grammatical errors. Many of the pages were splattered in different colored stains, and - although it added to the mysterious nature of the book - the lack of neatness rather bothered Hermione. She regarded the book in an angry fashion.

_Well, I can't let you win that way, can I? The second I stop reading, you'll get interesting._

With renewed gusto, she seized the book and opened it rather roughly, to her marked spot. She began devouring the lines with a near ferocious manner - her eyes lanced scathingly over every line, as though she were trying to slice it open to see if it would bleed. Her ability to terrify the impulse known as boredom, and make that naughty little emotion slink back to the deep recesses of her mind, began to shine through. She began to lose herself in the pages. She barely acknowledged that Tate, who passed by as she did every night on her way to the back of the library (where she convened with Malfoy), had tossed a note toward her. Hermione imagined herself as a tiny, purple cell, skipping along the delicate matrices that interlocked all over the human brain, and the words flew by. Before she knew it, she was staring at an indentation, clearly a new paragraph - something she had not seen once since she opened the book for the first time, nearly an hour ago.

_And now onto the blessed few..._The handwriting seemed to perk up with this new sentence, as though the words in the previous pages had grown tired of repeating themselves and were excited at the prospect of something new..._The telepaths. The telekinetics. The pyrokinetics. "Few" is a completely accurate description. As almost no research has been conducted concerning these baffling phenomena, no statistical estimate can be presented. At the time of this writing, November of 1968, there are 18 known telepaths in the world. Telekinesis, though it should be restricted to its' own, independent domain, always occurs in tandem with telepathy. While most wizards display brief telekinetic episodes during the development of their magic tendencies throughout childhood, these displays cannot be controlled, nor enhanced. To be a true telekinetic requires the extreme discipline and harnessing power of telepathy. To be one is to be the other. Pyrokinesis is a fascinating rarity (borderline nonexistent), and much more puzzling then the other two archetypes. For all three paradigms, which manifest simultaneously around the age of five, to be present in a single person is relatively unheard of (although there a handful of case studies spanning many centuries, most occurring in the early Middle Ages). It is most likely that individuals born bearing telepathy, telekinesis, and pyrokinesis die before their talents are recognized. Pyrokinesis will be discussed first._

A fly buzzed near Hermione's ear, and she swatted at it viciously, silently cursing the ridiculous insect for interrupting her concentration.

_Most pyrokinetic individuals die before the age of seven, and this unfortunate reality is the reason as to why so few pyrokinetics exist. Pyrokinesis, loosely defined as the mental act of setting fire, is an extremely dangerous and powerful entity when left uninstructed. Like telepaths and telekinetics, pyrokinetics must be taught to strongly control their emotions. The slightest passionate outburst could cause spectacular results if the powers are not forced under control within the first few months of their emergence. The awesome power of pyrokinesis MUST be controlled at the first signs of manifestation. Inevitable death will follow, due to uncontrolled outbursts that will most certainly end in the death of the pyrokinetic, due to backfiring of their own powers. They will be incinerated in their own fires. The abilities possessed by the pyrokinetic individual are not limited to mental power - the pyrokinesis involves mutations in the proteins and bloodstream of said individual, causing physical manifestations to result. While no laboratory research has been conducted on any adolescent pyrokinetic, it is clear that the individual's body is composed of more than the usual elements (C, H, O, N, P, S). It is my belief that the biochemistry of the pyrokinetic expands to include another, highly reactive element that would serve to explain the extreme physical manifestations accompanying pyrokinesis. It had been argued that the element in question has either, a) not been discovered as of yet, or b) does not exist. Author chooses option c. The element in question is sodium (Na) in its pure form. Pure Na does not occur in nature - it is too reactive. But the presence of pure Na in the biochemistry of a pyrokinetic would fully explain the incendiary capabilities of the mind AND the extreme physical reactions that occur in pyrokinetics. The extent of the mental capabilities are divided, but incredibly powerful. Fire can be ignited, controlled, and/or extinguished at will. The quantity of fire that can be effectively controlled is nearly limitless. A historical sighting in the early sixth century documents one such pyrokinetic as controlling a blaze that spanned an entire forest. In the case of non-flammable solids and liquids, pyrokinetics can affect these as well, causing them to heat rapidly. The physical reactions include what is fondly known as a "defense mechanism". The pyrokinetic epidermis has the ability to skyrocket to scalding hot temperatures, believed to surpass the boiling point of water, while maintaining internal homeostasis. However, contrary to popular belief, pyrokinetics are not "fireproof". They will burn if you shoot them with a flamethrower, so don't try it._

In rapid succession, tiny alarms went off inside Hermione's head. She recalled her brief trip into Tate's memory...Tate's cellmate had seized her in a fit of rage, and her hands had been burned...the science classroom Tate and she had sat in had been set ablaze. Stunned, she shut her eyes tight, and concentrated on the vibrant purple and green shimmers that began to dance behind her lids. They swam, multiplied, and soon she was wrapped up in a vision of iridescent oscillations.

_That'll do_, she told herself. Opening her eyes, the world dissipated slowly as the shimmers melted away, bringing the library back into view. She stood, book in hand, and walked purposefully through the shelves, stopping when she heard the voice of whom she desired to speak with.

"Dude, I told you it's useless to go digging around in all those books. You will never find anything! And who cares anyways?" Hermione did not particularly want to interrupt any ongoing conversation, and decided to wait until silence hung between the two people at the table. Maybe that way, she wouldn't have to speak to Malfoy.

"No one does, I can promise you that! Least of all me."

Tate snorted. "Right, so why are you looking in "_A Name! My Kingdom for Name!"_ instead of doing the Arithmancy homework you've been bitching about all evening?"

"All evening? You've been here fifteen minutes!"

"Yah, but you whine like a mule. It counts as all evening." Draco was silent for a moment, and Hermione could mentally picture him composing himself.

"I am looking because I am being driven insane by the mere fact that I cannot find it. Goddammit, I know it'll be in my father's bookcase - I think I may have even seen it before. I wish I could get back in there and get it."

"Well, you can wish in one hand and crap in the other, and see which gets filled first."

Draco laughed. "Has anyone ever told you that you have the manners of pig?"

"Has anyone ever told you that carrying a purse is unbecoming for a boy?"

Draco spluttered indignantly. "For the last time, it's _not _a purse! It's a Fendi shoulder bag! And it's better looking than your tattered rucksack, if you can even call it that." Hermione covered her mouth to suppress her giggles.

"Has anyone ever told you that you've got the manners of a pig," mocked Tate, in a high distorted voice. "Nancy."

"Bitch!"

"Ugly!"

"Whore!"

"Candy cane!"

"You're mad, you are. Candy cane? What the bloody hell kind of insult is that?"

"I was distracted. Hermione!" Hermione jumped at the sound of her name. "Come out from behind that shelf!" Flush spread guiltily through Hermione's chest and face, as she stepped out to face her friend. She nodded sharply to Draco, who had assumed his condescending sneer, and turned her gaze to Tate, who had her long legs propped up on the table, her chair leaning precariously backwards.

"Spying, are you Granger?" Malfoy fixed her with a penetrating stare.

"Quiet you," snapped Tate. "What've you got there?" Hermione tightened her grip around the book in her hands. Although she was extremely uncomfortable about sharing a table with a Malfoy, answers were her main priority in life. Behind Harry and Ron, of course. Quickly, she skirted around the edge of the table and took a seat next to Tate, placing the book in front of her.

"Find what you were looking for, did you?" Tate smiled at her. Hermione began to nod, then shook her head. She cast a quick glance at Malfoy, who was looking on with rapt attention. Suddenly, she felt unwilling to discuss the book in his presence. For all she knew, he might steal that damned thing. Instinctively, she placed a hand over the book, causing Malfoy to snort and assure her that he wanted nothing to do with her "ragged little diary". Tate smiled wryly at the description he offered for the book.

_Ragged and little, is it? I'll bet his father would pay a fortune for this_. She reached over, placed her hand on top of Hermione's, and slid the book across the table until it rested in front of herself. She removed her hand, and appeared to return her attention to the worksheet lying in her lap. Hermione slowly withdrew her own hand, and looked expectantly at Tate.

"So how far did you read till?"

"Oh, about two hundred pages, I believe. The first bit went rather slow, but he's finally getting specific." Tate smiled, her eyes roving over the worksheet in her lap.

"Excellent. Turn to page 437 for me, will you?" Without thinking, Hermione leaned forward, and flipped open the book to page four hundred and thirty seven.

"Are you sure that's page four hundred and thirty seven," asked Tate, without looking up.

"Of course I'm sure." Hermione was rather sharp now. She got the distinct feeling that she was being drawn into a cryptic little game, and she really didn't have the patience for it. Tate finally looked up from her worksheet, and locked eyes with Hermione.

"Oh yeah? How are you sure? There aren't any page numbers. Not one in the whole entire book." Malfoy snorted.

"I'd advise against proving Granger wrong, Tate. I've heard she breathes fire."

"Well then, I'd get a head start if I were you, Malfoy," Hermoine said scathingly, "Manky little ferrets burn awfully fast." He glared at her dangerously, but refrained from making any more snide comments. She returned her attention to Tate. "Of course there are page numbers. I saw them."

"Look again." Hermione scanned the open page. The number 437 was clearly emblazoned on the right hand corner of the page. She placed her finger on it, and looked disapprovingly at Tate, who smiled as she leaned forward and began leafing through the book. Every page she flipped to, with the exception of four hundred and thirty seven, was devoid of any number. Hermione was slightly confused.

"Coincidence," she said dismissively. Tate slammed the cover shut, making Hermione jump a bit.

"Do it again." Hermione shrugged, determined to prove her wrong, and shut her eyes as she lazily chose a random page near the front of the cover and flipped the book open.

"Cheater," whispered Tate, "You turned to the wrong page on purpose!"

"I did not!" Malfoy was chuckling superiorly.

"You so did!" Exasperated, Tate removed her reading glasses and gently massaged the bridge of her nose. "You need to try. Turn to page six hundred and forty three, and I dare you that you can't do it." Hermione furrowed her brow, glaring competitively at Tate, who put the edge of her glasses in her mouth and chewed, as though waiting to be proven right. Hermione turned her gaze toward the book, and the cogs and wheels in her brain began turning furiously as she took mental measurements. Without hesitation, she seized the book and opened it. There was no page number.

"Ha! I knew it!" Draco shouted gleefully, jumping up from his chair. The noise regulating fireflies began to glow. "Hermione Granger fails at something, I knew it was possible!" Hermione felt heated disgust build at the base of her skull. In moments like this, it was all she could do to keep from drawing her wand and hexing the smile right off his petulant face. She allowed herself to glare at him with lazy distaste, when Tate nudged her with a sandaled foot. Hermione glanced at her, and saw she was concealing a grin. Tate withdrew a quill from behind her ear, and placed the tip of the eagle feather on the open, left-hand page. Silently, she traced the tip down, between the rather sprawling, untidy penmanship. Hermione looked on as the quill stopped beneath the word 'six hundred and forty three'. Draco, oblivious to the discovery in his lunatic like laughter, excused himself to the restroom.

"Thought he'd never go away," Hermione muttered darkly.

"Ah, he's not so bad," Tate tread lightly, fully away that Hermione would never think anything less of him, "I can't believe you cheated and opened the wrong page."

"What? I didn't! It says page six hundred and forty three." Tate laughed and shook her head.

"I meant before, loser."

"So, do tell what this has to do with anything?" Hermione pursed her lips and crossed her arms. "Am I seer, because if that's what you are going to say, I must warn you that I hold no faith in Divination." Tate shook her head again.

"Divination? Who'd bother with that crap? You knew where that page was out of logic." A smile itched at Hermione's mouth. "Right?"

"Right. Take into account the weight of the book, separate it into categories. The leather bindings are made of fire salamander hide. See, you can tell by the red edging on the scales." She traced two fingers down the cover of the now closed book. "And the parchment is a particularly old kind - I'll venture lamb skin - and its probably more than 50 years old, considering the color. The ink carries weight as well, as does all the various spills. So, you've got a book that is six and a half inches by seven and three quarter inches, 3 inches tall. So, naturally, if I wanted to get to page B, I would start from the cover, A, and..." Her concentration broke as she looked up at Tate, who was regarding her with a very amused expression. "What? Have I got dirt on my face?"

"Yah." Hermione's hand instinctively flew to her face. "It says Hermione is a genius." Hermione giggled and ceased scrubbing at her nose. Tate sighed, and fiddled with her glasses. "Did you ever take math as a kid?"

"Of course I did."

"Did you take geometry and algebra and calculus?"

"I most certainly did not," Hermione said curtly, "I only attended muggle school until I was ten. You ought to know they don't teach those disciplines in secondary school!"

"Oh right. How careless of me. You must've studied them on your own."

"No, I never had time. Hogwarts does keep one busy." Tate looped an invisible rope around her neck and pretended to hang herself. Hermione snorted. "What's that all about?"

"It's cause your so damned _thick_!" Tate threw her hands over her face.

"Not at all," Hermione countered airily, "I'm very observant." Tate laughed hollowly into her palms. "Observant enough to know what you are." She tapped the book. Tate peered at Hermione over her hands.

"Good. Keep reading and maybe I'll take back that comment about you being thick." Hermione rolled her eyes.

"If you think for even a moment that I am a telepath or a telekinetic or a pyromaniac -"

"_Pyrokinetic_." Tate corrected tightly, through clenched teeth. Hermione sensed a great discomfort in Tate. She murmured an apology and continued.

"There's simply no possible way that I am any of those things. They're distinctly marked at birth. I am not. And they're well tracked. Once their powers emerge, they're immediately appointed personal instructors. And that is by law. There have never been any exceptions."

"Wow, you remember a lot." Tate narrowed her eyes at Hermione, searching her expression. She quickly broke off and leaned back in her chair, stretching her arms above her head.

"There's more in that book. That's what I'm so cryptically trying to allude to." Hermione interjected with a loud 'Ha!' and informed Tate that her allusions were as plain as day. "Whatever dude, keep reading." She nudged the book toward Hermione with her foot. Hermione looked up, just in time to see Draco Malfoy glide out of the shadowy corridor. She jumped, startled, and he looked pleased with himself.

"Still hanging around, Granger? What will the two forgotten musketeers do without you?" Hermione lifted her chin, and diverted her line of vision to the shelf behind him. Tate, however, grinned, and placed her feet on the edge of the table, leaning her chair back on two legs as far as safety would permit.

"And now, a word from our sponsor." She burped, very loudly.

Draco started to laugh, but quickly covered it, reminding himself that he didn't particularly want Granger to think he had any sort of humour at all. It might tarnish the reputation he had worked so hard for.

Tate watched him curiously, a knowing look in her eye.

"C'mon," she weedled, "You know you want to match that. I can see it in your eyes...go on."

Draco smirked at her, and shook his head. "Draco does not belch. It would be uncivil."

Hermione abruptly pushed her chair back and stood.

"As much as I'd love to witness a burping contest between you two, I think I'll take a rain check." She gently picked up her book, and bade goodnight to them.

She slipped into the small corridor between shelves and made for her desk, her steps quick and light. She cradled the book gently, now very appeased with it due to the fact it obviously had more important information to offer her. Grinning almost giddily, she hugged the book to her chest. The only sounds to be heard were the soft rustling of pages, and the delicate lilting melodies books seemed to call out to her as she passed.

A massive, thundering belch split the white noise of the library, followed by muffled laughter. Hermione rolled her eyes, as she approached her table. She reopened to her bookmark, and began to read. She got no further than the third line when yet another magnificently loud burp reverberated off the walls. The firefly sensors began to buzz angrily and shine green. Hermione heard Madame Pince come flying out of her office, grumbling to herself. Apparently though, a mere two burps per person were not enough to satiate the ludicrous hunger of the machismo contest brewing between Tate and Draco. Four more booming burps echoed throughout the library, followed by a bright blue flash, before Madame Pince decided to call in reinforcements. The old woman dashed behind her reception desk and rang a huge golden bell to summon the library brownies for assistance. Hermione chuckled to herself as the padding of tiny feet spread in all directions. Tate and Draco were in for it now.

_Serves them right._ She returned her attention to her book.

_Now I will address the widely controversial lineage of telepathy. Allow me to shatter any former beliefs you, the reader, may have had concerning telepathy and telekinesis. They are most likely nonsense. A telepath does not read minds. That is an ability that no mortal may possess. Additionally, there is no mind to mind communication of any kind. Telepaths are not clairvoyant. We have Seers to do that dirty work for us._

Hermione smiled at the light tone the author had taken on. It seemed that he had become much more comfortable with his writing - reading his words was almost like listening to a kind old man spin yards of fascinating tales. He spoke to the reader as a person, not a student.

_Telepathy is not defined as any specific discipline, unlike its counterpart telekinesis. Telepathy is varied and uniquely structured, if you will. It is tailored to fit the individual it inhabits. In my own research studies concerning telepathy, I believe that it is safe to rule out genetics as a pre-disposing factor. In-depth personal research of genetic DNA has yielded no contradictory results - the structure of DNA and its respective purines and pyramidines remains the same in telepaths as it does in non-telepaths. However, DNA is still highly involved in the process - excepting that the DNA of the two parents is more or less inapplicable, once the child is conceived and its DNA is encoded. Therefore, heredity plays no role. My best guess at this point, and I must say it's rather brilliant - _Hermione arched an eyebrow - _is that mutations occur in utero. The unborn telepathic child's rapidly dividing cells slip up, make mistakes, and the body and mind of the child develop accordingly so. However, the 'mistakes' (usually involving the spontaneous breaking and rejoining of DNA molecules) cause the telepathic child's nervous system to develop at ten times the rate of non-telepathic children. This accelerated system (which most certainly does NOT involve physical growth - shame on you if you wondered this) does not slow once the telepathic child is born. Their minds will continue to operate in spectacular prowess throughout the course of their lives._

Hermione was suddenly aware of a tickling sensation on her shin. She froze. If there was something under the table, she hadn't heard it arrive, due to the incessant pattering of feet and fluttering of wings erupting from all over the library. Madame Pince was still storming about, searching for the doomed troublemakers. Something warm brushed against Hermione's leg now, and she kicked out, hard.

"Fuck! That hurt!" Hermione scooted her chair back loudly and peered under the table. Malfoy and Tate were huddled beneath it. Tate was on her back, holding her head and looking dazed. Draco was pointing at her and laughing.

"Oh really!"

Draco's eyes grew wide as he saw Hermione, and he frantically began to shush her. She opened her mouth to speak, but Draco lunged toward her, seized the legs of her chair, and yanked it forward. Hermione gasped as the edge of the table caught her in the midsection, and kicked at him, but faint scuffling signaled that he had moved out of her range. Madame Pince came bustling into the lit area, looking quite frazzled.

"Ms. Granger, I trust that you are not responsible for the commotion." Hermione was appalled.

"Of course not, Madame Pince! I'm a prefect! I wouldn't go about setting bad examples." Madame Pince eyed her momentarily, for good measure, even though she had, in fact, never suspected Hermione.

"I hope your studies go well, dear." Madame Pince's dry, weathered face crinkled together in a weak smile. Hermione beamed back at her, trying vainly not to notice quite how much Madame Pince's skin reminded her of dead, crackling leaves. The old woman turned, and directed the small minion of brownies behind her. She looked, amusingly enough, like a massive choral director, gesturing wildly at a chorus of a hundred or so diminutive, excited children. The brownies, impossibly tiny (the tallest recorded brownie in history towered at an imposing twelve and a half inches), scattered in all directions, and Madame Pince continued her grumbling hunt for the offensive students. Hermione sniggered slightly - Madame Pince lived for that sort of thing - but was distracted when she heard a collective sigh from underneath the table. She kicked out again, and connected with something. Hopefully, it was Malfoy. But a muffled, masculine laugh assured her that it wasn't. She grimaced, as a sudden headache bloomed behind her eyes. She scooted her chair back, quietly this time, and peered under the table. Tate was sitting with her knees in the air, one hand clapped over her eye, the other propped at the elbow on her knee. With her good eye, she was looking reproachfully at Hermione. Draco was frantically trying to suppress his peals of glee.

"Not once do you kick her, but twice!" he gasped between choked laughter, "Twice! And both times, I imagine you were aiming for me! Ha!" He covered his face, and guffawed into his palms. Tate cast a withering glare in his direction.

"As pleased as I am that one of us manages to find my pain funny, we still have yet to discuss the rather pressing issue of our escape from the library." Draco, shoulders still shaking, managed a shrug. "Thought so. Where are all the cunning Slytherin qualities you're always yammering on about?"

"You're looking right at them," Hermione cut in, "Apathy, impetuosity, and a complete lack of interest for anyone besides themselves."

Draco smirked arrogantly. "You forgot devishly good looking, remarkably intelligent, and 'radiates sex appeal to which all women find themselves helpless'."

"Oh right. I can't believe I left 'delusions of grandeur' out." She glared at him savagely, and he glared right back.

"If you've quite finished," Tate said shortly, "I think we should probably concentrate on getting out of here."

"We? What do you mean 'we'? This is _your_ problem." Hermione sat up and scooted her chair back to the table with a little more force than intended, ignoring the stifled "I wasn't talking to you!" that came from under the table.

"And do be quiet while plotting your escape!" Tate giggled under the table, and playfully pinched Hermione's leg. Hermione kicked forth, and missed. Inside she tried to convince herself that she was seething, and yet there was a bouncy enthusiasm in the air. She half-smiled at the interesting predicament her two classmates now found themselves in, and began absentmindedly devising her own amusing ways of fleeing from such peril. However, not one seemed to match the audacity with which plans were being formed under the table.

"That's stupid," Tate protested, "We _can't_ stun Madame Pince. Think of something less illegal, please."

"I can't," whined Draco, "All I can picture is the old bag on the ground, my foot in her chest, and a collective roar of gratitude from the whole of Hogwarts." Tate chuckled briefly, and then glared at him. "It's not all that bad, we'll just hide out here until the old crone gives up."

"It is all that bad!" she insisted. "However, it _wouldn't_ be this bad if you hadn't insisted on screwing with that statue."

"I was improving it!" Tate looked at him incredulously.

"I hardly think that replacing an eight foot statue of Athena with a...a _streaker_ qualifies as an improvement!"

"You're right," Draco conceded. "Improved is not grand enough. It was pure genius." He thought proudly of the new statue that aligned the path to the Restricted Section. It was sure to cause a riot. Tate inclined her head slightly, and made to say something when Draco clamped a hand over her mouth. He pointed gingerly toward the darkened passageway. A brownie had come into shadowy view, and was gazing with interest at Hermione. Hermione took notice of the little creature when it decided to step forth, into the light. It was a very young boy brownie, with great brown eyes and a curious little hat on his head. His ears extended into points, and he grinned in excitement at Hermione.

"Hello there!" She smiled warmly at the little boy. His grin stretched even wider, and he scampered over and nimbly leapt up on the table to join her.

"Got any cookies?" He looked at her impishly, with bright, expectant eyes.

"Actually, I do," said Hermione. The boy skipped about in a joyful little dance, laughing gleefully. Hermione reached into her book bag and withdrew a cookie she had saved as a late night snack. She broke off a small piece and very gingerly held it out toward the minute little boy who was still dancing around the table. He clapped his hands in excitement, and accepted the massive piece of cookie she offered him. Standing at a mere six inches tall, he was an adorably precious sight to behold.

"Who were yeh talking to?" he asked her curiously.

"When? I've only talked to you since you arrived." Hermione felt a touch of concern.

"No," he mumbled, his mouth full of cookie, "Before you talked t'me. When'ya 'ad your 'ead under the table."

"Oh, that. Just talking to myself, is all. Helps me learn." She smiled broadly at him, and he grinned back, cookie crumbs scattered across his face.

A female voice wafted into their area from behind the shelves. "Conall? Conall, where've you gotten off to?" The boy's pointed ears perked up.

"That'll be Mum," he told Hermione. Then he puffed out his chest, and raised his voice to a surprisingly loud shout. "Oi! Over here, mum!" A plump, harassed looking female brownie paced quickly into the lit area. Like her son, she leapt onto the table, though with less agility.

"Oi, me back ain't what it used to be!" she lilted, smiling at Hermione, "Seems to be giving me more an' more trouble, as of late. I've a right mind to think its to do with me wee anklebiters!" She clapped a motherly hand on her tiny son's shoulder. He blushed, and grinned up at his mother, his face shining in adoration.

"Mum, she's got _cookies_," he said, his voice hushed, so as not to alert the other nearby brownies who would, no doubt, want some too. His mother's eyes twinkled.

"Yeh don' mind if I have a wee bit, do'ya dear?"

"Oh, not at all, go on," Hermione swept a hand toward the cookie, and the expectant looking woman grinned as she knelt down beside the confection. Hermione grinned at the two brownies. It never ceased to amaze her that the simple creatures were always happy. Although she had little contact with them - they usually remained in Madame Pince's private quarters, though she couldn't imagine why - it was a widely accepted fact that brownies never bothered themselves with anything hateful, dull, or sullen.

"God praises yeh, love. He loves kind people, he does. Don't he, Conall?" She nudged her son, who nodded fervently. She crammed a sizable chunk of the cookie into her apron pocket, and patted it. "For the wee bairns." Then she broke off a piece for herself, and settled onto the table.

"What're yeh doin up so late, m'dear," she asked. Hermione shrugged.

"Bit of homework and studying." The woman smiled kindly.

"Ah, a smart one yeh are. No doubt abou' it." She popped another piece of the cookie into her mouth. "Me 'usband went out with the other brownies, looking about for that lot o' troublemakers. Wee Conall 'ere sneaked out the door when me back was turned!" Conall beamed at his own cleverness. "Always following his father, this one." She inclined her head toward the front of the library. "Can't imagine why they 'aven't caught the litt'l tossers yet. Yer ol' dad is fallin about on the job!" Her son looked scandalized.

"Course he 'asn't, mum! Dad's backin' the dirty rotters into a corner, righ' now, just you wait!" Conall began bouncing up and down in pleasure. A soft snort came from under the table, and Hermione instinctively kicked whoever was huddled closest to her legs. Conall's ears pricked up, and he snapped to attention. Peering furtively at the shelves surrounding the table, he reminded Hermione very much of a bloodhound following the scent of a rabbit. Hermione nudged someone - she prayed it was Tate - warningly with her foot.

It wasn't Tate.

Hermione winced as Draco brought his elbow down on her foot. Conall squealed with excitement, and leapt off the table.

"Dad!" he shouted, his voice magically resonating off the library walls, "Dad, c'mere, I've found 'em!" The speed with which the other brownies descended upon the scene was of a supernatural immediacy. Hermione shrieked in amazement and leapt out of her chair, clearing the way as hundreds of brownies swarmed under the table. They poured through the walkways, and sprang through shelves, and dove onto the tussle. Hermione backed up against the shelf, entranced at absurdity of the situation. It was almost like a cartoon. Hermione erupted in giggles and had to stuff a fist in her mouth to stifle them. A pale hand extended from underneath the table - Draco's - and managed to grip the edge of a hopelessly shallow groove on the floor. The knuckles turned white as the arm heaved, and Draco's face, red and shiny with exertion, appeared from under the table. He managed to pull his other arm free, and frantically scrabbled uselessly against the smooth, hardwood floor. His mouth drew into a shocked O of surprise just before tiny hands seized the edges of his cloak and he was yanked back out of sight.

_This would be my cue to exit quietly...Accio_. Hermione caught her bookbag out of the air, and waved her wand. The rest of her books flew in quick succession inside her bookbag. She spun on her heel and vacated the small study area, and not a moment too soon. Madame Pince was scurrying towards the ruckus as quickly as her orthopedic shoes would carry her. Hermione slipped into a particularly shadowy nook, concealing herself from view as Madame Pince lumbered past her. There was a look of pure exuberance on her leathery, vulture-like face. Hermione snickered to herself, and decided it was a safer bet to take the back exit. She ran lightly through the walkways, her bookbag weighing heavily on her shoulders. She decided to take a slight detour through the Muggle Studies section. Otherwise, she'd come hurtling out of the main walkway, which usually meant she ended up skidding across the ridiculously slick marble floors. For such a smart girl, she tended to forget that important nugget of wisdom much more often than she remembered it.

Her slight detour sent her down remarkably narrow passageway - her bookbag caught the edges more than a few times, intensifying the dull ache in her shoulders. Just ahead she could see the gilded gates of the Restricted Section. She put on a slight burst of speed in her haste to escape the eerie narrow confines. And skidded on the slick marble right into a group of gawking first years. She took three of them down with her.

She apologized over and over again as the bewildered children left standing helped her up. She assisted in pulling a blonde girl with pigtails to her feet, and began brushing off the childrens' robes.

"What're you doing up so late, then?" Hermione inquired gently.

"Having a good laugh, that's for sure!" Hermione glanced at the dark-haired first year, whose attention was directed toward the statues that guarded the Restricted Section.

"Oh my..."

In place of the Greek goddess Athena's imposing statue, the statue of a man courageously stood guard at the entrance, between the bronze likenesses of Gullveig and Babd Catha. His bronzed arms were outstretched, in a body builder like pose, and his hands were clamped tightly around the edges of his trench coat, holding it wide open. He was stark naked. A glowing silver lightening bolt was emblazoned directly on his forehead.


	5. The Secret Room

The next morning, everyone was buzzing about the library incident. The charm Draco had used on the statue was of his own design. And, most unfortunately, he had yet to discover the counter charm. He and Tate both received six weeks of detention. If either wanted to study in the library, they had to visit Madame Pince first, who would cast silencing charms on them for the duration of their library time. Fifty points were taken from Gryffindor, and fifty points from Slytherin.

Overnight, Tate went from accepted to black-listed. Keeping the company of a Slytherin had a worse effect on her reputation than Hermione had imagined. Apparently Tate hadn't foreseen the shock and fury either. When she arrived at breakfast the next morning, her usual seat between Ginny and Dean was gone. Dean sat next to Ginny, and the only vacant seat was near the end of the table. She blinked once at the new arrangement, but took her seat without comment.

For the entire duration of classes that day, not a single Gryffindor so much as cast a glance toward their shunned housemate.

Ginny and Hermione nervously kept their distance - they weren't nearly as furious with her as the others, however it seemed in their best interests to wait until the situation cooled down. More than once Hermione tried to catch Tate's eye and send her comforting glance, but Tate never allowed her guard to come down. She bore the silence with the air of someone who couldn't give a second thought to anything. She ignored the dirty looks and passing comments, and concentrated solely on her studies. The weeks passed slowly, and the general mood did not change, even as February approached.

----------

Snape sat in his office, in his beloved swiveling chair, looking intently at a small vial that sat before him. On the opposite side of his desk, Draco watched him curiously. Tate sat beside him, eyeing her teacup cautiously.

"Oh, come now," Snape said irritably, "I've not poisoned that tea. Despite what you may have heard, my cooking is not lethal." Tate broke into a smile, and shrank away from him in mock terror.

"But sir, all the Gryffindors say you're planning to destroy the world!"

Snape managed a small smirk. "Gryffindor and houses alike be damned, so let's to the matter at hand, shall we?" Tate shrugged, and grudgingly took a sip of her tea. It wasn't bad, after all, but it needed sweetening.

Snape swiveled around in his chair, opened his cabinet and withdrew a stainless steel flask. He regarded it momentarily, unconsciously rubbing his eye where the potion inside had splattered him two months before. Turning around slowly to face his two students, a look of veiled admiration graced his face. He weighted the flask in his hand carefully, before handing it over to Tate. She quickly put the potion in her robe pocket, and lifted her eyes to meet Snape's glittering black ones.

"Thank you," she said sincerely, "It means the world to me." Draco looked pensive, as though he wanted to say something. Instead, he looked at the floor, an unnatural emotion spreading through him. Snape nodded curtly at Tate, as though eager to end the meeting. Cordials and acceptance of pure gratitude were not his strong suit.

"Get on with you," he said quickly, and spun around in his chair. Tate smiled and rose from hers, Draco following suit. As they were walking out, a murmured 'good luck' came from behind Snape's chair.

"Thanks," she whispered as she exited his office. Draco fell into step beside her, neither speaking for the length of the corridor. At the juncture in which they would part ways for classes, she turned to him suddenly.

"You know this means I'll be leaving soon."

"I know," replied Draco, shifting his eyes to hers. He shrugged. "You'll be back soon."

She smiled, rather unsurely, and put a hand chummily on his shoulder.

"When..." Draco faltered for a moment, regained his composure, and spoke more clearly. "When do you leave?"

"Next Wednesday," she replied, "Eight days." Draco nodded.

"Snuck up on me, it did. I mean, you told me a month ago, but it seems like...seems like yesterday."

"I've known for ten years. Nothing ever prepares you for it though," she whispered. "You're late for History of Magic."

"And you're late for Herbology," chided Draco. "See you after dinner, then?" Tate nodded, and they parted ways. As Draco begrudgingly slouched up the stairs towards the most boring class he'd ever encountered, the burning feeling in the pit of his stomach began to flood through his body. The first true friend he had ever had was leaving, and he was frightfully unsure whether or not he would ever see her again. The latent fear tasted metallic upon his tongue, and try as he might, he could not push it aside.

----------

The following day, the mood in the library was sober and tense. Hermione worked diligently on her Potions Essay, while Ron and Harry bemoaned the latest Divination project Professor Trelawney had assigned to them.

"I can't believe this," Ron fumed, "Mum said before that this particular reading is one of the most difficult seeing procedures ever!" Parvati and Lavender, seated at an opposite table, giggled pointedly, and began to talk loudly about their excitement. Ron snarled briefly at them, and then turned to Hermione.

"I'll never forgive you for dropping Divination, Hermione," he lamented, half-joking, "I need you and you're off doing your little Arithmancy tables!"

"Divination is a fuzzy little ball of bullshit, taught by a barmy old loon," she snapped, without looking up. "I'd be forced to punish myself if I were still bothering with that rubbish." Harry looked up in surprise.

"Really, Hermione, there's no need to swear." Ron shot her a disapproving look.

"Perhaps not," she mumbled. She looked over her potions essay, and the words swam in front of her eyes. She passed a hand over her forehead. Her concentration was nowhere near its usual blade like edge. There was an awful nagging in the back of her head - an endless song that played over and over. She'd been trying all day to force herself to stop thinking of it, and that had merely caused it to swing full force. Harry noticed her discomfort, and swung an arm over her shoulder, pulling her head down to rest on his. She sighed, and closed her eyes briefly.

"Overworked, are'ya?" Hermione nodded. On top of Snape's ridiculously elaborate essay, her transfiguration thesis was due in two weeks, an in-depth Arithmancy project was scheduled for the fifth of April (giving her a scant two months to compile nearly ten thousand years of relevant facts into a single hour of an oral report), and she had been selected to assist in the translation of a recently recovered Runic scroll, dating back to the third century. It was an amazing honor, but extraordinarily time consuming. She, Hannah Abbot, and Terry Boot, the top Runic students, had been informed of their extra credit assignment that very afternoon, and all three had been delighted. However, it demanded hours of intense work - at least two hours every single day, weekends included. This didn't bother Hermione in the slightest, but it was starting to weigh on her. She always seemed to take on too many responsibilities. It was an endless cycle. She would begin the year promising herself that she would relax for a while, enjoy her last few semesters, but no. She would overload her schedule, her hunger for knowledge seemingly overpowering her need of a well-deserved break.

"There goes the quiet one," Ron whispered to Harry. Hermione turned, and saw Tate approach Madame Pomfrey, who removed the silencing charm from her (but not before fixing her with a wilting glare). Tate bent her head, and exited the library, without so much as a glance toward the table Hermione occupied.

"Honestly, Ron. It's been three weeks. You really must get over all this." Ron frowned at her. "And you too, Harry! You're being very unkind!"

"Unkind!" Ron was flabbergasted. "_Unkind?_ Hermione! She transfigured that statue into Harry's likeness, and all you can do is nag at us for not wanting to talk to her! That's ridiculously hypocritical."

Hermione glared right back at Ron. "Malfoy transfigured that statue, and you know it!" Ron waved a dismissive hand at her.

"It doesn't matter. She was with him when he did it. I've a mind to say she's sneaking around with him all the time!"

"That didn't stop you from tailing her when she went to the Yule Ball with him." Ron's eyes blazed in fury.

"She didn't know any better then! She was new, she couldn't have known how awful he was then. She's got no excuse now."

"I'll second that," Harry cut in. Hermione drew in a breath, intending to continue her argument, but suddenly, she was very tired. Too tired, in fact, to beat a dead horse. It was more or less useless for her to continue berating Ron and Harry over something they would never see her way.

"Well, I'm off then," she said quickly, forcing a smile.

"Sweet dreams, love." Harry caught her shoulder, and gave her a lingering kiss.

Ron choked. "Oh, go on! Do that somewhere else!" Hermione chuckled, leaned over and messed up his fiery hair, ducking as he tried to swat her. "Oh stop that! Get on with you!" He grinned at her.

"G'night, gentleman." She swept away. Harry leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling.

"Is the Athena statue back yet?" Harry shook his head. "Did you get to see the other one?" inquired Ron.

Harry shook his head. "I expect they carted it off the moment Madame Pince found it."

"Pity," said Ron, "I heard it was rather funny."

"Funny or not, Malfoy created it. I've no interest in anything remotely associated with him."

Ron nodded his agreement. "I'll bet his father is furious. Maybe he'll ground him, or hex him, or ship him off to Durmstrang!" Harry smiled.

"We can dream, can't we?" He righted his chair, and looked at Ron. "Have you noticed," he began in a serious tone, "That the Slytherins are acting funny?"

Ron snorted. "Dunno what you mean, Harry. You say that as if they've always acted normal or something."

"That's not what I mean." Harry shook his head and rubbed his eyes. "They're actually angry with Malfoy for breaking the rules, have you noticed?" Ron stared at him. "You haven't noticed that?"

"Harry," Ron said slowly, "They aren't just angry with him. They hate him. I've definitely noticed, I don't see how anyone hasn't. I suppose they finally realized what a complete pillock he is, although they still like each other. They're all mental, if you ask me." Ron returned to his book.

Harry shrugged, and bent his head over his Divination handouts. The next few weeks were going to be nightmarish. Trelawney claimed that the fates had "encouraged" her to implement a new teaching structure. For the next three days, they were going to be sifting through various tubs of disemboweled animal entrails. After that, they were going straight into blood signs. Ron shuddered involuntarily.

Harry was in the third paragraph of a particularly nasty description of how to read prosperity signs when looking at a handful of fresh pig bladder when Professor Flitwick scurried into the library. He disappeared behind the counter, and Harry craned his neck to get a better look, prompting Ron to take notice as well. Madame Pince was looking down, probably at Flitwick, and nodding. The tiny little wizard ran from behind the counter, Madame Pince behind him. They exited the library.

"Well, what was that all about?" Harry wondered.

"Let's follow them!" suggested Ron. Harry looked dubious.

"Ah, c'mon mate! We haven't had a good adventure in a long time!"

Harry grinned at him. "Let's go get the map." They seized their books and dashed out of the library.

----------

"What a bloody shame," Ron fumed, shifting his weight under the Invisibility Cloak, "Why can't they just meet in the Great Hall?" He glared murderously at the locked Staff Room door. So far, they'd only been able to make out slightly muffled phrases like 'earlier than we expected', 'totally unprepared', and 'move up the dates'. Probably an issue with fifth year O.W.L.S.

"Probably to avoid manky little earwigs like us," admitted Harry. Ron clenched his jaw. "Let's go see Hagrid. He'll know what's up."

"Are you mad, Harry? It's bloody freezing outside!" Harry shrugged.

"Then we'll run. Since when does snow bother ickle Ronnie?" Ron sighed in defeat.

"All right, but check the map first and make sure he's home. Otherwise, I'll be stepping over your dead body to get to bed." Harry chuckled and pulled the map from his pocket. It was already activated, as they had used to it to discern the locations of Professor Flitwick and Madame Pince. Harry scanned it briefly.

"Nah, he's in there," Harry pointed to the Staff Room.

"Damn!" Ron was a bit enthusiastic. "Well, it's off to bed then, isn't it? C'mon, up you get, let's go." He started to trot away, but Harry didn't move.

"What the hell is she doing outside?"

"Who?" Ron leaned over to look at the map. Harry pointed a black dot, labeled 'Tate', followed by an ink smear. Ron pressed his mouth into a thin line.

"Who cares? C'mon Harry, I'm tired."

"Fine, you go on, but I'm going to see what she's doing."

"That's spying, Harry. Aren't we beneath that?"

Harry laughed. "I'm sorry, remind me. What were we doing down here in the first place?" Ron grimaced. "Thought so. C'mon."

They took off down the hall. Unbeknownst to them (but knownst to us - A/N: Haha) the Staff Room was alive with fear and scrambling. Months of planning were about to be shattered, and evil was preparing to spring forth. Voldemort was through stirring, and his malevolent forces were moving quickly toward inevitable confrontation. The professors had just been informed that they were to rapidly rearrange the delicate network they had been preparing all year. Not fifteen seconds after Harry and Ron left, the door opened and teachers flooded out and scattered in all directions, every one of them with an indispensable job to do. Dumbledore paused at the door, and inclined his head in the direction the two boys had run off in. He smiled in their wake of boyish excitement. Professor Snape came to stand beside him.

"Should we tell them now, Headmaster?" Dumbledore shook his head.

"No sense in worrying either of them straight off," he said, "They were already set to depart in a week. That date will not change. I will tell both of them on Wednesday, as planned." He turned a smiling eye to Snape. "Besides Severus, it is not certain yet whether our recent information is correct. Until we know for sure, I see no point in adding unnecessary fear to the shoulders of our young friends. Let them have this last week in blissful ignorance." The two men bade each other good night, and left for their respective quarters.

----------

After a few minutes of running, Harry and Ron were fast approaching the balcony, when a shriek split the silence.

"You disgusting _bastard_!"

Harry froze, causing Ron to slam into his back. They both toppled over.

"Blimey, Ron, can't you watch where you're going?"

"Right Harry, since I could see you and everything! Did you hear that shout? Sounded like Ginny."

"Shh, someone's coming!" Indeed, the sound of running footsteps filled the corridor. Ron seized Harry, and they both rolled toward the wall, and not a second too late. Ginny came flying down the hallway, her red hair undone and streaming behind her like a river of fire. Her bare foot came down, mere inches from Harry's face. She was crying. Seamus was in hot pursuit. Ron growled, and began to get up. Harry caught at his cloak.

"No," he whispered dangerously, inclining his head toward Seamus. "This is _their_ business. Not yours."

"Ginny, will you please wait! I can explain!" Seamus caught up to her and seized her arm, pulling her to a halt. "Please, there is a logical explanation to all this mess."

She struggled against him, scrunching her eyes against the new onset of tears. "You're damned right there is! You're a lying bastard, and I'm sorry I ever wasted any time on you!" She yanked her hand away, and drew it back.

SMACK. Seamus stumbled as Ginny's hand impacted his cheekbone, saw stars and three or four Ginnys sweeping down the hall. Seamus looked after her for a moment, and then began to swear.

Ginny continued to run, her tears impeding her vision. The events of the past ninety seconds began to replay themselves in her mind.

_She'd been walking to the Ravenclaw Common Room to find Mandy Brocklehurst. They'd been paired up in Astronomy, and were planning to complete their star chart that evening in the astronomy tower. She rounded the corner, and descended the staircases. On the fourth floor, unnatural sounds from an empty classroom distracted her sufficiently from her intended course. Peering in, she saw a girl with long, dark curling hair. The girl was fervently kissing a taller, blond boy. Ginny's heart stopped as she recognized the profile. Seamus. She viciously kicked the door wide open, and the two sprang apart. Recognizing the girl as a Hufflepuff fourth year, Ginny's heart began beating again, only to snap in her chest._

_"Ginny…" Seamus tried to be soothing, but she had taken off both of her shoes, and they bounced off of his forehead in succession._

And here she was. Violently, Ginny pushed open the double doors in front of her, and stumbled onto the fourth floor balcony. The frigid wind laced into her, nearly throwing off her balance. Her bare feet stung with the icy ground but she paid the pain no heed, and threw herself into the rail, sinking in tears.

_How could this happen?_ Finding Seamus had been so uplifting to her. He had rescued her from her debilitating thoughts of Harry. He had saved her crumbling self esteem from extinction. He had shown her a new and different outlook. And now that was all gone. He had lied. She was nothing special, and never would be. She brought her hands to her face, and began to sob her troubles out onto the wind.

"Ginny?"

Ginny's head snapped up, the vicious wind whipping her hair into her eyes. She squinted against the elements as the blurry figure before her came into focus.

Tate sat, one knee extended, on the ground next to the door. Ginny was rather perturbed to see that she was wearing her ridiculous Birkenstocks, and didn't even look cold. She made no move to get up, but remained on the ground, regarding Ginny solemnly. A lit cigarette rested between her long fingers. She wore no gloves.

"What's wrong, Ginny?"

Ginny just stared at her, the magnitude of the situation lost on her tongue. She wasn't ready to bring it out into words yet. Tate seemed to recognize this. She drew herself up, and was at Ginny's side in a flash. She knelt next to her, but made no move to touch her.

"C'mon, hon. Get up. This is no place to be walking around in without shoes and a coat."

"No!" Ginny turned her face away, and recovered it with her hands. "I'm not going back inside. I don't ever want to see that...that asshole ever again!" Tate sighed deeply. Those few words were enough to grasp the situation. She pitched her cigarette over the side, and extended a hand to Ginny.

"At least come over there. It's warmer, I promise." Ginny didn't answer. She went totally limp, defeated. Tate slid her arm behind Ginny, and pulled the girl to her feet. Ginny complied, and allowed Tate to lead her over toward the door. The atmosphere went from brutally cold to comfortingly warm. Ginny looked at Tate in confusion.

"Handy warming spell," Tate explained. "S'called _thermae. _One of the first spells I ever learned. It'll keep a five by five foot area warm until you take it off." Ginny nodded, not really listening. She sank down on the ground, and Tate flopped down beside her. Ginny gently touched the ground. God, even the snow was pleasantly toasty. Tate pulled a lighter from her pocket, and lit a new cigarette. Ginny wrinkled her noise against the unpleasant smell of smoke.

"I'll never understand why people do that," she said sulkily. Tate shrugged, and inhaled deeply on the cancerous little concoction.

"Nor will I." Tate regarded the white stick with contempt. "It's an awful habit, I know," she met Ginny's eyes. "But we all have that one thing we wish we could quit. It just won't go away, no matter how hard you try."

Ginny snorted. "Easy for you to say. You could just stop buying them. I have to see him every day." Tate nodded, and trained her eyes on the ground.

"Seamus?" Ginny shook her head miserably.

"Harry." Tate started to cough violently, exhaling smoke in great volumes.

"Harry! You've got to be kidding. You like _him_?" Ginny shrugged in desperation, and placed her index fingers against her temples, willing a familiar migraine to go away. "Aren't you dating Seamus?" Ginny's face darkened.

"Not anymore."

"Ah...catch him cheating, did you? That'd be a logical explanation to this outburst." Ginny nodded, in dark misery. "Wow. That sucks. That really sucks. I'm sorry Gin."

"With a _fourth year_."

"Oh man. A fourth year...that's rough. I heard he was a cradle-robber, but geez..." She smiled at the broken redhead. "Well, look at it this way. You'll no longer be unfulfilled by the notorious Irish Inch." Ginny giggled weakly. "Hang with me tonight. I've got an evening of laughter planned. Will you join?" Ginny shrugged, but nodded.

"I'm in need of some laughter, that much is true. What'll we do?" Before Tate could answer, the double doors burst open once again. Tate jumped up, and blocked Ginny with her cloak. Ginny shrank back, expecting to see Seamus burst out. But that was not who had arrived.

"Sorry I'm late. Potion took longer to brew this evening." Ginny would know that drawling voice anywhere.

"Good. Are you sure it worked?"

"T, I live with the Potions Master. Dare you question his genius?"

"You what!" Ginny suddenly covered her mouth, realizing she probably should not have spoken just yet. Draco gently shoved Tate aside, and glowered down at the youngest Weasley. Then he locked his pale grey eyes with Tate's flashing brown ones.

"What is she doing here?" His voice was slow and controlled, yet there was a dangerous undertone. Tate held his eyes unwavering.

"She's had a bad time of it tonight, Draco, and she'll be joining us."

"She most certainly will not!" Draco was furious, and fixed Ginny with his most hateful gaze possible. "I'll not be showing _my _secret room to a _Weasley._"

"If your secret room is not fit for a Weasley, then you can be sure I won't step foot into the steaming little cesspool of yours. I'm sure it reeks of foul bigotry, you heartless prick."

All motion stopped. Tate and Draco looked down at Ginny in stark surprise. Ginny was shocked at herself, but she glared at Draco in unwavering resentment. Something behind those pale grey glaciers melted at her harsh words, and - for a fleeting moment - approval and respect shadowed the chiseled bones of his face. He did not speak. He merely angled his face toward Tate, and nodded slightly. His hand snaked toward her jacket pocket, and dropped something inside. Then he spun on his heel and disappeared through the double doors. Tate turned to Ginny, and extended a hand to her. Ginny took it, stood, and regarded her friend with renewed curiosity. Tate, without letting go of Ginny's slender hand, retrieved her wand from her pocket, waved it quickly, and frigid cold replaced the pleasantly warmed enclosure. She leaned over, seized her sky blue satchel, and passed through the double doors, pulling Ginny with her. The two padded quickly down the hall.

At the hall's juncture, Ginny made to go up the stairs, but Tate shook her head, and pulled her away from the path to the Gryffindor common room. Ginny looked at her in confusion, but followed her, their hands still linked.

Tate led her down many unfamiliar corridors, but then again, Ginny had to remind herself that one could live in Hogwarts for a hundred years, and still never distinguish one corridor from another in the dead of night. Currently, they were traipsing down a side corridor on the second - third? - floor, lined with coats of armor.

Tate stopped in front of a nondescript coat of armor and gently lifted its arm. Ginny's eyes widened in excitement as a narrow section of the wall behind slid apart, revealing an opening that would accommodate a small child. Ginny snorted in disbelief, as she measured the hopelessly tiny entrance. Tate was slightly over six feet tall, and she herself was not far behind at 5 foot nine and a quarter. There was no way either of them were going to fit through that wisp of an opening. Tate, sensing her apprehension, inclined her head to grin at Ginny. Then she slipped between the coats of armor and somersaulted into the small passageway. Ginny, still in a daze, followed suit, albeit less graceful. She thumped into Tate, who kicked a protruding brick in the rather claustrophobic passage, causing the wall to close behind them. Ginny's breath began to come in harsh, ragged gasps as the claustrophobia set in on her. Tate's body tensed, and then pulled away from her.

"Lumos." Light streamed through the passage, and Tate reached into the small enclosure, seized Ginny's arm, and pulled her two or three feet forward. Ginny felt the suffocating walls of the tight passage disappear, and forced herself to open her eyes. She blinked twice, and saw only ceiling. She sat up, and surveyed the room. It wasn't very spacious - more long than wide, really. The room was probably fifteen feet by thirty. A large, arched window connected the room to the outside, and Ginny surmised that it was likely quite pleasant during the day. A plush green carpet lay in the center of the room, flanked by several fluffy bearskin rugs, complete with faux heads and limbs. Silken tapestries, the color of amethyst, gilded the walls. Naturally, no Hogwarts room would be complete without a roaring fireplace, however, the fireplace in this room was most elaborate. Extending from the top and sides of the hearth were inlaid filigrees of silver and gold, intertwining in the shapes of licking flames. It was quite magnificent.

"How on earth did you find this place?"

"I didn't. It's Draco's room." Tate surveyed the room with a small sense of pride. "You should've seen it the first time I came in here. It was awful, all done up in black and green and silver. Draco has no future in interior decorating." Ginny giggled at the thought of Draco as an interior decorator, complete with clipboard, flashy designer clothes, and a pronounced lisp. "He's been coming here since he was a third year. I think his mother told him about it, but I could be wrong. His father didn't, though, that much is for sure." Tate grinned, walked over to a corner piled with strange looking contraptions and flopped down on a polar bear rug.

"Why wouldn't his father tell him about this place?" Ginny asked. "The way he's always going on about that bastard, you'd think he'd hung the moon." She grimaced at the mention of Lucius Malfoy, and staunchly tried to ignore the ice cold shiver that stabbed at the base of her spine. Tate remained expressionless, but her eyes grew dark. She busied herself with a knick knack from the pile of odds and ends.

"When was the last time you heard Draco going on about that man?"

Ginny opened her mouth, and quickly shut it. Truth be told, she couldn't remember a specific time in the last few months, but she was sure he had. However, she decided to abandon the subject, as Tate seemed rather put out by the mention of the eldest Malfoy, and Heavens knew that Ginny loathed the subject of Lucius Malfoy with all the fires of hell.

"What's that you've got there?" Ginny joined Tate in the corner, settling herself on a grizzly bear throw. Tate looked up at her, eyes flashing in glee, and spread several things out in the space between the two.

"This," she gestured to a metal framework that had tiny wires protruding from every which direction, "Is going to be a car." Ginny snorted, and shot her a look of disbelief.

"No, really! It's not going to be a normal sized car, of course, but it'll move around. And this," she pointed to a smaller metal box, "Is what we'll use to make it move. I've just got to finish putting it together."

"Oh really? Well that's just excellent! By the by, could you come with me to the animal shelter next Tuesday? You-Know-Who and I have moved into together, and we're looking to pick out a cat to share our cozy flat." Tate looked up at Ginny, who was grinning wryly, and raised an eyebrow.

Tate began muttering to herself. "Now, where is that stuff Draco gave me...Aha, here it is." She withdrew a glass vial from her jacket pocket, and placed it on the ground. Plunging a hand into her satchel, she retrieved a black velvet case, and unfolded it, revealing several silver tools. Ginny watched in fascination as Tate took a pair of shiny pliers and began connecting wires all over the framework. Every once in a while, she'd dab a bit of the potion from the vial onto the wire connections.

"Here," she said, placing the vial closer to Ginny, "It'll go faster if you help me. Will you put a little bit of this stuff on the remote? Just put a dab of the potion anywhere a wire is showing." She handed Ginny the small metal box, which Ginny assumed to be the "remote", and Ginny set herself to work.

"Congratulations on your Quidditch game today."

Ginny glowed in flattery, despite her miserable evening. She valued compliments concerning her Quidditch style above all other praise (even over Harry - something she prided herself on). It made her feel worthy, in comparison to the rest of her family. She tried to curb her grin, and blushed, muttering a 'thank you'. Tate pressed on, doing her best to lift Ginny's dark mood.

"How long you been flying, anyways?"

"Goodness, since I could walk really, so I'd say about twelve years or so. You could say it runs in the family." Tate smiled and nodded, her eyes trained on the car. "What about you? You seem very athletic, why aren't you on the Quidditch team?"

Tate looked up at her with an incredulous expression. "Me? On a broom? Hell no, not a chance." Ginny looked almost affronted.

"Well, why not? Flying is the most liberating feeling in the world. All my troubles disappear when I get on my broom."

Tate laughed, and shook her head resolutely. "That's where we're different. All my troubles would _begin_ if I got on a broom. Those things freak me out."

"You're mad! Have you even tried getting on a broom before?"

"Oh sure, Ron tried to make me over Christmas. It just felt unnatural." Ginny looked thoroughly unconvinced. "All right, fine Ms. Broomstick Queen, here's how I see it. Would you go boating on a stick?"

Ginny made a face. "Well, no, but I don't see how that's got anything to do with -"

"Of course you wouldn't. I wouldn't go sailing on a stick. And I won't fly on one either! This girl doesn't go flying without a plane or a parachute."

Time began to pass pleasantly, as the two playfully argued and toyed with the delicate craftsmanship. Ginny become so absorbed in the conversation, she neither heard the passageway slide open. However, when Draco somersaulted into the room, she jumped and dropped the remote.

"Very graceful, Weasley." It was infuriating how fluid and polished Draco looked, even when he had just rolled into a room. Ginny shot him a look of disdain, and returned to dabbing potion on the "remote". Tate rolled her eyes dramatically, and shook her head, concealing the smile on her face. When Draco was in the company of other girls, his demeanor was drastically different. His early years of refined etiquette and polished style resurfaced, and the charm he managed to exude was legendary. He moved with the sleek grace of a cat, and his eyes held the promise of treasures unknown. It was amusing to say the least. Around her, the grace was forgone - he was goofy, very open-minded, and totally comfortable in his own skin. Comfortable enough to make ridiculous crude jokes and talk about conquests and failed relationships. She was the closest equivalent to the best guy friend he'd never had.

"Start without me, did you?"

Tate smiled up at him innocently. "Yes. Also tried to lock you out, but the damned knight wouldn't listen to me."

"No one listens to you. You really must accept that."

"Well, you're right on that one. No new developments, in case you were wondering. Gryffindor still remains cold and silent, with the exception of Ginny and Hermione." Draco laughed airily. "Which brings me to another point. We need to talk."

Draco grew solemn. "Ah, the worst four words in the English language."

"Well, it's either that, or 'whose bra is this'?" Tate reached behind the polar bear, and lifted a frilly little negligee with her pinky finger. Ginny, who had buried herself in the remote control in order to keep from looking at Draco, looked up in interest.

Draco furrowed his brow in deep thought. "Hmm...pink...who wears pink..."

"Pansy wears pink." Tate clucked her tongue and met his glare with a grin.

"The day Pansy gets into this room will be the day I fall on my knees at Trelawney's feet and profess my undying love. That's probably Blaise's...or maybe Patil's." Ginny's jaw dropped.

"You're not carrying on with Parvati!" Draco glanced at her lazily.

"And if I am? I don't see how that is any of your business." Ginny tried to tame her building anger.

"The long 'arm' of Draco reaches deep," giggled Tate, "His promiscuity is unmatched." Draco smirked with pride, but frowned when he saw a familiar gleam in Tate's eyes. "Ever wonder who was responsible for the massive outbreak of crabs six months ago, Ginny? You're looking right at him." Ginny burst into giggles. Draco scowled petulantly.

"You were not even here six months ago, Tate. And that outbreak was entirely Kevin Entwhistle's fault. Megan Jones made sure everyone knew that."

"Oh, fine. That's not even the point."

"There was a point?"

"Yep. This is the fourth, or maybe fifth, piece of naughty underwear I've found in three weeks. I've never seen anyone go through girls like you do. This is a small school! How is it that you're not constantly recycling?"

Draco shrugged. "They all get boring too quickly. Once they start their endless prattling about god-knows-what, I usually usher them out too fast for proper collection of clothing." Tate pursed her lips in disapproval.

"You know what your problem is? Your standards are too high -"

Draco interrupted defensively. "I kissed you!" Ginny's jaw dropped once again, and she fixed Tate with a look of disgusted anger.

"That's because my standards are too low. Besides, it was a favor." She ventured a glance toward Ginny, who was literally trembling in fury. Draco took note of the strange behavior as well.

"Jealous, Weasley?" Ginny's eyes lit upon Draco, who involuntarily backed away an inch or two. If hatred were a tangible entity, Ginny Weasley's eyes would've ripped him apart.

"Jealous? You're quite mad, you know." Her fiery eyes shifted to Tate, who held her ground. "Do you have any idea how upset Ron is about this whole thing? And here I've been, trying to convince him that you would never hurt him. And you've been carrying on with _Malfoy_? No wonder everyone is angry with you! You've been lying this whole time! You deserve this recent treatment, and much more!" Ginny slammed down the remote, and prepared to escape, but Tate seized her wrist in an iron grasp. Tate drew her forward, until the two were nearly touching noses. She spoke tightly, each word ground out like shattered glass through a mill.

"I would never do anything to hurt your brother. I never 'carried on' with anyone. You and Hermione are independent and understanding enough not to judge people on who they spend time with, but everyone else is content to pass judgment without a second thought. You're different than that, you're better, and you know it, so _act like it_." Throughout the entire delivery, Ginny was aware of an intense heat between Tate's hand and her wrist. Now that Tate had completed her tirade, she released Ginny's wrist, and looked at the floor. Draco placed a hand on Tate's bare arm, and quickly pulled away.

"You need to control that, darlin'," he said matter-of-factly. Tate nodded without looking up, and seized her little car, attacking the wires with renewed vigor.

Ginny looked at him curiously, her anger gone, and replaced with sympathy. Tate was clearly very affected by the distaste Ron had recently displayed toward her. "What does she need to control, exactly?"

"That," he said, pointing to Ginny's wrist. Ginny examined it, and found that the skin was quite red.

"Oh, it's nothing," Ginny said dismissively, "She squeezed a bit tight, no harm done."

Draco rolled his eyes, and grazed his fingertips over Ginny's wrist. A new heat blossomed in her veins, but of a different nature altogether. He gently took her wrist and turned it over, tracing his thumb over the blue artery that pulsed beneath her ivory skin. "Feel that?"

"Feel what?" she asked, assuming what she hoped was a blank expression. Ginny was too busy masking her discomfort to notice Tate shoot Draco a severe warning. He dropped Ginny's wrist quickly and attempted to change the subject.

"Just to quell your heartbreak, I only kissed the little spitfire," he shot a playful glare at Tate, who wrinkled her nose at him, "Once. She begged me. It was a favor between friends, nothing more."

Tate clapped a hand to her forehead and groaned. "You lie like a rug!"

"Oh what? I don't!" Draco assumed a face of cherubic innocence. Tate made a noise of fury in the back of her throat, and spoke to Ginny.

"A few days before the statue incident, we were in the library and Pansy was coming over to bother him - I don't know if you've heard this tragic tale, so I'll explain," At this, Draco shook his head in disgust, took the remote from Ginny and began to work on it earnestly.

"Pansy has a most unhealthy obsession with our blonde friend here, or more specifically his 'little' friend." Draco snorted and pointed out that precisely nothing about his "friend" was little. Ginny cracked up, remembering full well the many times she'd seen the horrid girl running after Draco in the halls (more often than not, he was sprinting to escape her).

"Therefore, she's developed quite a distaste for me on the side. So, she's at our table, yammering on about some bullshit, and Draco writes 'help me' on the corner of his homework. So I smooched him. She flipped out, called me 'trash', and took off. Two birds, one stone, it was great. I've never seen anyone so mad." Draco's shoulders shook in silent laughter, as he recalled Pansy's purple face.

However, Tate hadn't told Ginny the whole story. While Pansy _did_ still have a voracious sexual attraction to Draco, she also now viciously hated him. The majority of the Slytherins did, what with his turn away from the Dark Arts. Up until recently (recently being the past three days), no one at Hogwarts (with the exception of the faculty) had known of his quiet refusal into Voldemort's ranks. Of course, Draco knew that, eventually, it would come to light. But nothing ever prepared him for it. For a year and a half, he quietly nursed his wounds of being disowned by his family. Now that his secret was out, his house, his supposed "family" away from home, had turned against him. However, contrary to popular belief, not all of the Slytherins were young Death Eaters in training. This didn't make Draco's change of heart any easier though. The Slytherins who did not subscribe to Voldemort were wary and afraid of Draco, both due to the possibility he might be a spy and to the consequences that might befall them from the other loyal housemates. Even without Draco, Crabbe and Goyle were a mighty force to be reckoned with, as was Pansy and Blaise. The four of them ruled the house with terror and hard faced tyranny. No one questioned them. They had taken Draco's place as Slytherin dictator.

Draco, however, was not afraid of them in the least. They disgusted him beyond telling. Draco grimaced at the thought of the four, kneeling pathetically to a man who ruled with terror and violence. In front of Voldemort, everyone, even the strongest man, was a sniveling weasel. It was enough to turn his stomach every moment he was forced to sit among his housemates.

Now, he didn't have to keep up his friendly guise. He was free to ignore them in peace, publicly. In private, he avoided them, spending nearly all of his time with Tate, either in the library or in his special room. His mother had, in fact, revealed the room to him - Hogwarts was riddled with secret rooms, none of which showed up on the Marauders Map. The lucky finder of a room simply changed the entrance's mechanism or password, and no one else could ever get in unless the finder chose to reveal it to them (or blindfold them, which Draco had done on more than one occasion - usually with his never ending conquests).

"Done!" Tate crowed, and set the odd looking car on the ground, beaming proudly. Draco looked up and grinned. "How's the remote coming along?"

Draco snatched a small antenna from the pile of metal scrap, and carefully screwed it into the remote. He held it aloft and waved it around.

"Finished, as well." Ginny looked on in anticipation as Draco handed the remote to Tate. She accepted it, flipped it on, and pressed a button. The car sputtered slightly, and exhaled a tiny fume of red smoke. Tate started to verbally wheedle the car, and fiddle with the toggle stick. The car whined and putted, and spat a new cloud of purple smoke. Draco laughed heartily.

"Always with the purple smoke, T! Be careful, or your precious car will explode like most of your potions!" She shot him a death glare, and resorted to swearing at the car. This didn't help matters, but it did cause the car to produce more of the same thick, violet vapor. Ginny giggled as Tate's language got more colorful.

"C'mon, you fucker, go! Move! Drive!"

It coughed angrily, as though offended by the stream of profanity. "You ungrateful little smackwhore! I order you to go!" More smoke. "I'll smash you into pieces, I swear! And then I'll make a toaster out of you and you'll never move! You'll be worthless!" The car stopped making any responses and went silent. "Oohhh, that's it you heartless bitch, you're getting shock treatment!" Tate threw down the remote, and staunchly ignored Draco and Ginny, who had both collapsed into unstoppable laughter. Ginny was on her back, hands over her eyes, giggling madly. Tate smiled slightly, and seized her wand. She pointed it at the car, muttering, and a small bolt of blue electricity arched from the point of her wand to the car. It buzzed excitedly, whined and expelled a massive cloud of blue vapors. She grinned, seized the remote, and the car came alive.

"Ha! It's alive!" she shrieked wildly, as the car sped around the room under the control of the remote. It maneuvered in a wide circle, then spun around and clipped Draco on the ear as it passed. He howled in a victimized sort of way and summoned the remote away from Tate. She laughed and leapt lightly out of the car's oncoming path. Draco, Ginny, and Tate continued taking turns with the car well on into the evening.

"Well, that's it. I'm off. If you need anything, you know where to find me," said Tate as she slung her satchel over her shoulder.

"Right," grinned Draco, "On your fiery throne of the damned!" Tate laughed, shot him the finger, and somersaulted out of the room. Draco seized the remote from Ginny, and the car began to edge along the hearth. Ginny smiled uncertainly, a bit conflicted. She knew she shouldn't stay with Malfoy, but she didn't want to leave. No matter how much she tried to silence her conscience, the truth was she found Draco tolerable. She was even beginning to enjoy his company. Lost in her thoughts, she didn't realize the car was coming straight for her until it crashed into her knee.

"Ouch! Well, that wasn't very nice, was it?"

Draco grinned sardonically at her, raising an eyebrow.

"I'm not nice, remember Weasley? I'm an evil Slytherin." She pursed her lips together and studied his face briefly.

"You're not so evil," she said thoughtfully, stretching out on the recently vacated polar bear throw. "I've found you to be quite tolerable this evening."

"Have you now? Well, that's comforting. I'll shout it from mountaintops." She snorted, and redirected the conversation to a topic she held much curiosity in.

"How is it that you became such good friends with Tate so quickly? To be honest, Malfoy, I never thought you were one to befriend outsiders, especially Gryffindors."

Draco drew his brows together, and leaned on his elbow. He looked appraisingly at Ginny, taking in her innocent eyes and curious face. Inwardly, his conscience began debating. _Why not tell her? It's not like anything is worth hiding anymore._ He sighed slightly, and gave over.

"Well, I suppose there is no harm in telling you." Ginny looked at him with interest, lacing her arms behind her head. "A year and a half ago, I declined to join Voldemort." Ginny's lips parted slightly, but she said nothing, willing him to go on. This strengthened Draco's resolve, although he couldn't discern why. He had expected to see surprise, even doubt on Ginny's face, and yet she simply looked as though she half expected him to tell her that Lucius Malfoy's only child had refused his supposed destiny.

"Needless to say, it didn't go over well with my family, and I had no reason to stay."

"And you moved in with Snape?" Draco looked sharply at her, confused. She smiled. "You said as much earlier, out on the balcony." He softened, and ceased cursing mentally at Tate.

"Right. As you might imagine, most of the Slytherins would not look kindly on a decision such as that. Not to mention, no one from that house was really my friend to begin with. There's nothing substantial to relationships that are formed out of convenience. Plus, Crabbe and Goyle are the poster children for stupidity. I've had better conversations with brick walls and spiders." Ginny laughed, and Draco smiled at her. Her breath quickened slightly, and she prayed he took no notice.

"Anyways, there wasn't much for me to do, really, no new friendships to spark. People are too biased at Hogwarts, I had no interest in coming clean to anyone. And then she came to school." Draco paused, searching for the right words. "She didn't know anything about anyone, had no concept to the sort of gossip that runs rampant in this place. For the first time, I met someone who had never heard of house loyalties. She didn't have any biases to base me on, nor I her." As Ginny watched, his eyes grew compassionate and wistful. He sighed, and swept an arm out in front of him. "And there you have it."

Ginny had managed to keep her racing mind from expressing itself on her face. In her head, a battle was waging itself. Draco registered as _human_ for the first time. She recognized compassion and morality in a person she thought harbored only cold and hatred. Something changed in her, and she found herself smiling at the silver haired boy in front of her, as though seeing him for the first time. Draco looked up, expecting her to speak, and was rather met with her beautiful smile. His breath hitched in his throat slightly, confusing him, and he tried to dig up a witty remark. But none came. Like a goofy child, he grinned back.

"It's nice to know blood flows through your veins, Draco," quipped Ginny.

"Hey, I never said that," he joked, and assumed his trademark Slytherin sneer.

"Don't do that," she said, "It hides your face."

"Nothing will ever hide this face," he grinned, "The gods of beauty have seen to that." She snorted, and looked at her watch. It was past midnight. Draco, seeing the tired look on her face, stood and offered her his hand. Taken a bit aback, Ginny took it, and he pulled her to her feet.

"I'll walk you back to Gryffindor," he said chivalrously, and Ginny felt a flush creep up her neck and face. Later that evening, in her bed, she would realize that, not once throughout her evening in Draco's secret room, did she think of Seamus. Or Harry.

----------

Hermione lay in her bed, curtains drawn, the tiny lantern attached to the left bedpost winking cheerfully. In her lap lay _The Blessed Few_, and she read it with an unnatural hunger. She was nearly finished with the introductory section that described the three cornerstones of the fascinating mind powers as far as humanly possible. Now, however, in the midst of describing the power that allayed telepathy, the author had begun to cite several interesting legends and prophecies, mulling over them thoughtfully. Hermione was beginning to realize that the book was not so much a volume of text, as it was a journal. The reader journeyed with the author as he outlined his plan of attack, discussing every aspect as fully as possible, and musing over the abundance of odd metaphors that sprinkled every legend.

_The accelerated mind development of the telepath is designed to focus on specific teachings. Logically, whatever a telepathic child learns throughout his or her life will be retained in the photographic memory, however when certain aspects of learning and technique are focused upon (at minimum, a year), the telepathic child will develop the skills as far as humanly possible. Even if the physical body of the telepath is unable to complete such demands, the mind will systematically take over, enabling the body to comply. _

_The closest thing to mind control that telepaths possess is a heightened sensitivity to the emotions of other humans. One would do well to think of it as a radar. Telepaths can sense fear, excitement, sorrow, love, hate, and anger (to name a few - the scope of emotions is limitless). This sensitivity alerts telepaths to the presence of people they may not be able to see. When a telepath is particularly intimate with a fellow human being, the telepath learns to detect that particular person's aura, as a dog recognizes a smell. In addition, this "sixth sense" (to be cliché) allows telepaths to sense each other's powers. A telepath in close proximity to another telepath will be well aware of the others' presence and powers as a telepath. Physical contact between two telepaths can bring about many desired reactions, from sharing powers and information, to drawing the other into their respective memory. The sensitivity extends to include foreboding. A telepath's most precious sense is their ability to recognize impending danger (whether human, spirit, or other), and remove themselves from any such harm that may be in store. Telekinesis is, as defined in any dictionary, the ability to control objects with the mind. What the dictionary does not tell you is that the size of the object does matter. No one can lift a building, a car, or a dragon. It doesn't work that way. While the options of what one may lift or manipulate does definitely expand, there is no such "superhuman" strength involved. Leave that castle alone! Trying to move it will only give you a massive headache, and may even induce bleeding from the ears. If this should occur, clap your hands over your ears immediately. You don't want your precious brain leaking out anymore than your mother wants it staining her carpet. Then scold yourself for being an idiot._

_Now that we have covered exactly what a telepath is/is not, their use and importance can be taken into consideration. Often the question is posed to me, what purpose do telepaths really serve, other than to flaunt their superior mind functioning over mine? The answer is not always what one would expect to hear. Allow me to make it clear, however, that we telepaths do not exist solely to annoy the non-telepathic (although this can be a perk, when presented with a particularly offensive non-telepath. My childhood at the prestigious Hogwarts comes to mind). Telepaths are the only effective weapons against any sort of psychic threat - human, spirit, or animal. Just as a polar substance will dissolve only in another polar substance, psychic power can be fought only with psychic power. Thankfully, in this modern day and age, the threat of psychic power has diminished remarkably. In fact, with the recent fall of Grindelwald and his enlisted furies, the percentage of active psychic demon activity has fallen so low, that the prestigious Ministry of Magic has deemed it non-threatening. To read up more on this important decree, the author recommends _Annual Journal of the Ministry of Magic, 1945-1946. _In addition to this, it should be noted that telepaths are, in fact, the only link with high, otherworldly powers (namely, the Four Elements - Earth, Air, Fire, Water). However, this link is shadowy, at best._

_Shadowy?_ Hermione wondered, _What does that mean?_ She read on for another fifteen minutes or so, before sleep overtook her.

----------

"Stop looking over my shoulder, Ron!"

Ron jumped back, guiltily. Hermione turned to glare at him. He batted his eyelashes at her, and she softened and began to grin.

"Write your own parchment, Ron. You won't get any help from me." Ron grumbled a bit, and returned to his own chair. Hermione turned her gaze back to the Potions essay she was poring over. Harry sat at her feet, his head against her knee, reading over his Divination notes.

The portrait door swung open, and Tate's head appeared.

"Hey 'Mione -- if you want to go do that potions stuff, we need to go now." Hermione eyed her suspiciously. She had done her hair again in that ridiculously annoying fashion - two braided coils over her ears, Princess Leia style - and Hermione knew for a fact that Tate only did it to bother her. She sighed heavily, tossed her book onto the end table, and rose to accompany Tate to Potions tutorials.

"Neville!" Neville looked up, rather alarmed at being addressed by...well, anyone. He looked at a spot a bit above Tate's head and nodded.

"Get up," she demanded, "You are coming with us." Neville blanched, and began to shake his head. Tate's amicable expression hardened.

"Ne-ville," she drew out the pronunciation of his name languidly, "Pretty please get up and join us." Neville looked helpless -- Tate was his Potions partner -- drew himself to his feet, and reluctantly followed Hermione out of the portrait hole. He followed three steps behind them, the two girls chatting rapidly as they went.

"Anyways," Tate was saying, "The whole movie was based on The Odyssey. I can't believe you of all people don't know this!"

"I try to busy myself with school and not with something I only have time for in the summer!"

Tate quit walking. She looked at Hermione, a mask of pain upon her face. Hermione grimaced. Tate threw her hands over her chest and sank to her knees. She began mewling in pain, and Hermione started to shake in laughter.

"Fair Hermione!" squealed Tate in an abnormally high pitched voice, "Thou hast banished me from --" Hermione cut her off by smacking her across the back of the head. Neville winced at the loud CRACK! Hermione leapt around Tate, leaned over and seized her head. Tate yelped in mock fury, and Hermione buried her hands in Tate's hair and twisted. The cinnamon bun hairstyle was no more in less than three seconds. Neville began to back away, expecting Tate to explode in fury. However, she merely grinned, and snapped to her feet, scampering ahead to lead the way. She shouted over her shoulder at Hermione, her hair messily swirling out behind her, aspects of how Star Wars was paralleled precisely to the Grecian epic, and Hermione would occasionally agree, but more often refute. Neville was getting quite interested in this...whatever it was they were talking about, when they reached the Potions door. Neville reddened, and tried desperately to curb his trembling. Tate placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"Suck it up," she said -- he would've preferred her silence and the hand on his shoulder, but she viciously kicked the door open, and dragged him in. Snape stood behind his desk, analyzing some disturbing look potions. He looked up when the three burst through the door.

"And just what are you three doing in here?" he spat venomously.

"Doing our damn homework, Pro-fess-or." Tate batted her eyelashes at him. He eyed them suspiciously.

"Get on with it then," he snapped, "And get of here as soon as possible." Neville's face was quickly turning purple, and he was only too happy to comply. The three Gryffindors turned to the nearest cauldron.

Fifteen minutes later, Hermione was once again surrounded by a giant purple cloud that reeked of candy. It seemed to be Tate's specialty in Potions -- screwing up and causing great purple vapors to arise and cover the class. The Slytherins had even grown tired of making fun of her for this, and that was definitely saying something. Even Snape seemed to be accustomed to it these days -- taking an obligatory ten points from Gryffindor without even looking up. This particular explosion had been one of the more powerful ones, and Hermione, Tate, and Neville were knocked off their feet, and lay tangled together on the ground. Hermione waved a hand through the thick purple cloud.

"GET OUT!" roared Snape. Tate, from her position on the floor, nodded. Hermione and Neville were practically clawing each other in their haste to disentangle themselves and escape. Tate got to her feet lazily and turned her head toward Snape on her way out. Something that echoed of fatherly love gleamed in her eyes and she grinned at him. He smiled, a real smile, back at her, as she skipped out of the room.

Exiting the classroom, Tate sped up to catch up with Hermione and Neville, although she knew the odds of that were extremely low - they had run out of the classroom like gazelles under attack. She sighed and put on speed, flying past the suits of armor who turned their heads to watch. Rounding a corner at breakneck speed, she pitched forward over an outstretched foot, and landed hard on the rough stone, her elbows and knees absorbing the impact of the spectacular fall. She skidded a few feet, groaned heavily, and flipped onto her back.

"Goddammit Malfoy, I thought we were beyond these little sneak up games!" No answer came, no blonde head appeared through the shadows. She examined her scraped elbows, briefly. "All right you little prick, if you want to settle this like men again, I'll be perfectly happy to kick your ass." She smiled good-naturedly, expecting Draco to appear out of the shadows and respond to her threat when an unnatural feeling struck her. Draco had not tripped her. She knew this because she had never before sensed an aura of such intense hatred when in his presence. She squinted into the darkness cautiously. Pansy Parkinson stepped into the light. Tate looked at her, reproachfully, and sighed in annoyance.

"Figures," she said. She raised herself on her elbows, preparing to get up when rough hands seized her arms and yanked her unceremoniously to her feet. They locked her arms behind her back like an iron vice. Anger began to bloom softly in her stomach, as she recognized the heavy breath emanating over her shoulder as Goyle's. He'd clearly eaten something heavily spiced with garlic for lunch.

"Can I help you two?" Tate's voice was light and airy. Pansy twisted her mouth into a smug sneer. Tate itched to slap it off her face, and then scolded herself for doing so.

_Don't lose control_, she repeated over and over in her head, _Don't lose it, don't lose control._

"Why yes, you can." Pansy looked quite pleased with herself. "You see, there is this rather pressing issue of Draco Malfoy. We," she indicated herself, Goyle, and Crabbe who had come to stand beside her, "Want you to stay away from him. We would prefer it if he were miserable and friendless, as he was for so long. A dirty traitor deserves no less. Consider yourself warned." Pansy nodded to Crabbe, who advanced toward Tate. Tate braced herself, knowing he would probably smack her - she had an incredibly high tolerance for pain, but this boy was as big as a house. Crabbe drew back his fist and lit into Tate with all his strength. Despite herself, when his fist connected with her breastbone, she doubled over and gasped for breath. He was much stronger than she imagined. He slapped her, open-handed, across the face, and tiny sparks of black impaired her vision. Pansy simpered, and Crabbe drew back to knock her again when Goyle's eyes bulged, and he shouted in pain. He released Tate, and she went to her knees, still panting for the air that had been knocked out of her. Goyle stared at his hands, a mixture of horror and shock plain on his face. His hands were bright red, as if they had been scalded with hot water. Tate lifted her head and fixed her gaze on Pansy.

"Come now, Ms. Parkinson," she said silkily, between deep breaths, "Have you Slytherins no dignity at all? You've got to attack me, three to one, while one of your boy toys holds me down? I'd say you were losing your touch, but I doubt you ever had one to begin with. I'll give you all one last shot at a fair fight, before I make you sorry. Deal?" Pansy glared at her, furious over the dignity stab.

"Fine then, bitch. Get up."

Tate stood, slowly, taking her time. "Drop your wand." Pansy smirked, and laughed.

"Sorry to disappoint you, but I don't fight that dirty muggle way," hissed Pansy. "I fight the witch way, and if you aren't up to that, well, my condolences to your pitiful family." Tate clenched her jaw tightly. Pansy tightened her grip on her wand, and grinned malevolently as Crabbe snuck up behind Tate. This time, however, she was ready.

She whirled around, and kicked her leg high in the air, meeting Crabbe in the jaw. He howled, and she planted her elbow directly in his solar plexus. He backed away in fear.

"Scared, Pansy?"

Pansy took a step back, glaring at her in fury. Suddenly, she shrieked in pain and dropped her wand, which was glowing orange in heat. Stunned, she stared helplessly at her useless wand. Out of ideas, she flew at Tate, scratching wildly with her long, emerald green nails. Tate was too surprised to react for a moment, allowing Pansy's talons to make contact with her. She scratched Tate's throat deeply, drawing blood in four perfect lines down her collarbone. Tate seized Pansy by the shoulders and held her at arms length, dodging the wild swings that came her way. Pansy managed to get a handful of Tate's hair, and she twisted her hand in it and yanked viciously.

Tate hit her limit. "That is it, you bitch!" She spun around Pansy and twisted her arm behind her. Pansy squealed in pain, and squirmed wildly. Tate increased the pressure on Pansy's wrist, and Pansy stopped struggling.

"Had enough yet?" she growled. Pansy swore.

"Let her go." Tate peered over her shoulder. Goyle was behind her, his wand raised. She released her grip on Pansy, who whirled around to face her.

"Petrificus Totalus!" A stream of blue light shot from behind Pansy and struck Goyle dead center in the chest. He stiffened, having been hit with a full body bind, and fell over backwards, his arms straight against his side. Pansy whipped around to face his attacker. Hermione Granger stood behind her, wand raised.

"You leave her alone," she snarled. Pansy grimaced, and snatched up her own wand, wincing slightly at the waning heat, and pointing it at Hermione.

"A duel then?" She glared at her menacingly. Crabbe lurched forward, but Tate was faster. She crouched and spun, her leg catching him behind the knees, and he crashed to the ground. She leapt onto his chest, and the heel of her hand connected soundly with the bridge of his nose. Blood spurted as his nose broke, and he moaned painfully, clutching his face. Pansy whirled around and pointed her wand at the girl on her henchman's chest, but Tate's leg curved up in an arc and caught Pansy in the ribs. Pansy stumbled briefly and Tate was on her feet, seizing the collar of Pansy's robes. She lifted the Slytherin right off the ground and slammed her hard into the wall, holding her there and glaring in utmost fury. Pansy's mouth opened and closed like a fish, and her eyes flashed with fear and hatred. Her feet dangled a foot off the ground. Hermione placed a hand on Tate's shoulder.

"She's not worth it," she whispered. Tate ignored her. She brought her face within an inch of Pansy's.

"Consider _yourself_ warned," she hissed, repeating Pansy's threat. She released her grip on Pansy's collar and the girl fell to the ground. She breathed deeply, rubbed her eyes. When she looked up, Tate and Hermione had gone.

----------

"Are you hurt?" Tate shook her head. "Stop walking so fast, will you? You forget that I'm shorter than yourself. Your legs are longer." Tate grinned slightly, and slowed her pace. "So, what the bloody hell was that?"

Tate shrugged. "I was running to catch up with you guys, and Pansy tripped me. They said they didn't want me being friends with Malfoy."

Hermione groaned. "I should've known. They're very protective of their kind, they are. Don't want him crossing over, I suppose." Tate shook her head.

"That's not it at all."

"Then why?"

Tate shook her head again. "It's not my business to tell you. You'll have to ask him yourself." Hermione scoffed, but half-heartedly. To be perfectly honest, she really didn't care about Malfoy's personal life. Hermione looked up at Tate curiously, and noticed the thin bleeding lines on her collarbone.

"Good lord, that girl has the fingernails of a banshee! I'm surprised you didn't snap her in half for that!"

"Years and years of discipline'll do that. Wouldn't have been a fair fight anyways. That girl is a swizzlestick." Hermione giggled. They turned down a narrow corridor and came face to face with Peeves.

"Oh great," Tate muttered. "'Lo there, Peeves. Off to jump in the sack with Myrtle?" Peeves grinned maliciously at the two.

"Late for classes, are you?" he jeered, in a maddening sing-song voice. "Out mucking up the halls for Filchy to clean?" Hermione began to back away, Tate following suit.

"Where ya goin', friends?" shouted Peeves as they turned and sprinted away. "Come back! I've got a surprise!"

"You're a freak, Peeves! Take some Zoloft!" shouted Tate, over her shoulder. Hermione looked at her in fury.

"Now you've done it, Tate!" Peeves was gaining on them, the wind whistling through his vaporous body.

"Run faster then! Find a shortcut, I know you know a million of them!" Hermione put on speed, and wracked her brain. Peeves was within reaching distance of them, and Hermione really didn't want to get doused with a freezing cold water balloon. They were coming up on a very familiar painting...

"There!" shouted Hermione.

----------

Harry and Ron sat in two overstuffed chairs in front of a roaring fireplace in the main kitchen, each clutching a butterbeer. Dobby sat across from them. Seeing as it was his day off, Harry and Ron had mutually agreed to chat it up for a bit with the house elf (the food, of course, had _nothing_ to do with it!). The small elf was perched on a footstool, and grinning broadly at Ron, who had presented him with his annual Weasley Christmas sweater (shrunken to Dobby's size, of course). The elf was chattering on, happily.

"Dobby is not seeing Harry Potter for a long time, he isn't! Dobby has many things to tell Harry Potter!"

"Sure, Dobby," smiled Harry. Dobby's green tennis ball eyes filled with tears.

"Harry Potter is so nice to listen to Dobby! Harry Potter is so wonderful to visit Dobby! Dobby is not deserving such wonderful friends, no he is not!" Ron grinned, and rolled his eyes affably. "Dobby is wanting to tell Harry Potter and his Wheezy that Winky is doing very good in the House Elf Treatment Program. She is not drinking butterbeer for six months now! Dumbledore says Winky can come back to work next month. Dobby is very happy, he is - Dobby misses Winky very much." Dobby sighed, in what was clearly deep affection for the troubled Winky. Harry grinned

"That's great, Dobby. I'm sure you'll have an extra special pair of socks for her when she comes home, eh?" Dobby blushed deeply.

"Perhaps Dobby will sir, perhaps. Where is Harry Potter's miss, today?" Harry shrugged.

"I think she's in Potions tutorial with Neville and Tate."

Ron grimaced. "I truly never thought that anyone could be as bloody terrible in Potions than Neville. Who knew?" Harry laughed.

"Trust Snape to partner them together. Bet that tickles his sadistic fancies." He took a sip of butterbeer. "So Dobby, what else've you been up to, then?" Dobby's expression became grave.

"Dobby was lighting the fires in Professor Dumbledore's office yesterday when Dobby heard...Dobby heard..." He hiccupped, and seized his ears roughly. "Dobby heard his old master there!" With a screech, he leapt off the footstool and began banging his head against the floor. Ron swore, and seized the little elf.

"Dobby, you don't have to do that anymore, remember! You're free, please stop forgetting!" Dobby valiantly tried to compose himself.

"Dobby is sorry, sirs, but sometimes he forgets." Ron nodded.

"What did Lucius Malfoy say, Dobby?" Harry's voice held a hint of urgency.

"Dobby heard old master say that Dumbledore was beating a dead horse. But Dobby wasn't seeing no dead horses, so old master must be..._crazy_!" Dobby grinned excitedly, but his ears drooped when he realized his outburst had earned him several disapproving looks from the other house-elves. Harry furrowed his brow.

"Later, when Dobby was in the staff room, Dobby heard teachers talking about a gray man." Harry and Ron exchanged confused looks with each other.

"A gray man, you say?" mused Harry, "Did you happen to hear anymore?"

"No, Harry Potter, Dobby is only hearing that."

Ron sighed. "Well, we know who to ask then."

Harry nodded. Hermione, of course. She always knew the answer.

Suddenly, there was frantic scrabbling from behind the portrait that concealed the kitchen. Harry, Ron, and Dobby jumped, startled, and looked toward the door. The sound of shattering glass, and a roar of outrage filled the kitchen as the door swung open. Hermione toppled in, Tate falling on top of her. They were both covered in bright red jam. Harry could faintly hear Peeves cackling like mad as he zoomed away. After a few seconds of recovery, Hermione began to whine like a wounded llama under Tate's weight. Tate rolled off Hermione and lay on her back, laughing hysterically.

"I don't see what could possibly be funny about this!" growled Hermione. "You go and hack off Peeves, which you know is stupid, and then we get covered in...in..."

"Jam!" gasped Tate, through her laughter.

"Right! Jam! And you find this funny? You're mad, do'ya hear me! Barking mad!" Hermione pulled herself into a sitting position, glaring at Tate. Tate's laughter subsided.

"C'mon, Hermione, have a sense of humour." She smiled, and licked her fingers. "Mmm, strawberry." Hermione cracked a very sarcastic smile, and noticed they were being watched.

"Oh, perfect," she muttered. Tate looked up and saw Harry and Ron's incredulous faces for only a split second. A huge mob of house-elves were running toward them, mops and buckets in hand. Hermione jumped up, and performed a quick cleaning charm on herself, and then backed away from the busy elves. Tate pulled herself into a sitting position, and looked in awe at the elves swarming all around her. Curiously, she touched one, and was rewarded with a great toothy grin from the tiny, bat-eared creature, who immediately asked her if he could get her anything. Tate stared, openmouthed, in mute awe. One of the elves, whom Dobby identified to Harry as Blinkin, leapt onto Tate's knees and snapped his fingers. The jam was instantly removed from her face and clothes. In a very uncharacteristic show of girlish demeanor, Tate squealed in delight and swept the house elf up in a hug.

"You are so adorable!" she cooed, and Blinkin struggled valiantly to escape her grip.

"Blinkin needs to be cleaning, he does! Miss must let Blinkin go! There is mess to be cleaning!" Tate reluctantly let the squirming elf go, and joined Hermione who was looking furious, and muttering about slave labor under her breath. Still fuming, she stomped over to the fireplace and flopped down on the hearth. Tate gingerly sat beside her. Dobby eyed Tate nervously, as though expecting her to attack and hug him.

"Lo, ladies," grinned Ron, "Having a spot of trouble with the local poltergeist, are we?" Hermione snorted, and gave him a one fingered salute. "You're cutting me right here, Hermione!" Ron pointed at his heart. She rolled her eyes at him, raised a hand and flicked Tate on the forehead.

"Ow!" shouted Tate, "That was unnecessary!"

"I'll be buggered if it wasn't," snarled Hermione, "You could've gotten us in big trouble with Filch."

Harry smiled. "But you're not in trouble, Hermione, so give over."

"Shut up, Harry! You are not involved in this conversation." Harry shook his head, and took another sip of butterbeer.

"Will Miss be wanting a butterbeer," Dobby inquired hopefully.

"That'd be lovely, Dobby, thank you," replied Hermione. Dobby scampered off, and returned almost immediately with two butterbeers.

"Thank you," echoed Hermione and Tate. Dobby grinned broadly, and resettled himself on his footstool.

"Hermione," Harry ventured, "Do you know what a gray man is?"

Tate dropped her butterbeer. She managed an apology through chattering teeth, and her hands trembled madly as she groped for the bottle.

"Sure," piped up Hermione, casting an uneasy glance toward Tate, "A grey man, or Fear Liath More, is a demon. It's both physical and psychic in form. It can cause pretty awful effects with its' psychic attacks. Most people run into him in wide, open fields or hills, and they either die or go mad. The legend goes that the gray man procreated with a balrog, and the spawn that resulted is a deadly amalgam of the two."

Tate ran a shaking hand through her hair. This wasn't right, it was too early, far too early. _I'm supposed to have six more months_, she thought, _This isn't right, it can't be. We leave to train in five days, this is not right, not right, not right..._

"Where did you hear about a gray man," she whispered, her eyes trained on Harry.

"Dobby heard professors talking about the gray man, he did," squeaked Dobby. Tate looked at him sharply.

"What did they say?"

As Harry watched, Tate's grip tightened rigidly around her butterbeer. Her knuckles were turning purple.

"Dobby doesn't know! Dobby doesn't like to be droppin' eaves around the noble professors!" Tate looked at him, her eyes wide and insistent.

"Did they say he was coming?"

Dobby shook his head. "Dobby heard them say he was awake."

The merrily crackling fire suddenly surged with intensity, sending a shower of sparks raining down on the Hermione, Tate, and the terrified house elf. Harry, whose eyes had not left Tate once during the exchange, felt a terrible sense of foreboding as her face turned ashen. The butterbeer in her hand suddenly shattered under the incredible force she had gripped it with. Everyone stared in shock, as she apologized profusely and hid her bleeding hand in her robes. A legion of house elves swarmed around her and swiftly erased any traces of the mess.

"Thanks for the butterbeer," she said rapidly, "I've got to go." She leapt to her feet and began to run, but Harry threw himself forward and seized her ankles, bringing her crashing to the ground.

"What do'ya think you're doing!" he shouted.

"I'm preparing to run away," murmured Tate, facedown on the floor.

"You're not going anywhere," snapped Harry, and sat on her legs. "What do you know about this gray man?"

"Nothing."

"You are a bloody terrible liar!" exclaimed Hermione. "You just reacted like a spooked horse!"

Tate jerked her head up and locked eyes with Hermione, causing Hermione to shrink back. Tate's eyes were glowing metallically, fear blazing like fire through the dark orbs.

"It's bad," she whispered, "It's very bad. If he's awake, it's because someone woke him up. And the only way you wake up a demon is by..."

"Making a pact with the devil," finished Hermione. She blinked in realization, and cradled her head in her hands, suddenly very tired.

"Right. Ten brownie points to the person who can figure out who would want to do something like that." The disturbed, heavy silence that lingered between the four students was the only answer anyone needed.

"There's more," murmured Tate.

"And what might that be?" asked Harry, now very suspicious. Tate hid her face briefly, cringing at the sharp edge in his voice. Lithely, she flipped over, catching Harry by surprise. He tumbled off of her legs and fell on his side by the hearth. She sat up and tossed a dismissive, icy glance in his direction.

"The grey man isn't enlisted by anyone. He doesn't make personal deals. If he is awake, it's to wake up his son." Hermione's eyes opened wide, glassy with comprehension. Everyone was silent as Tate got to her feet, and left the kitchen.

After a long time, Ron spoke. "What do we do?"

Harry turned to him, his face slack with exhaustive fear. "We wait."

----------

Late into the evening, Hermione, Harry, and Ron were gathered around the fireplace in the common room, poring over endless volumes in search of something that would aid their cause. So far, they had come up with nothing, save for loose definitions and ancient anecdotes.

Ron raked a hand through his hair, and angrily tossed a massive book into the wall. Hermione jumped, and glared at him disapprovingly. Harry took no notice.

"I can't find anything substantial," Ron fumed, "Nothing but descriptions upon descriptions of the giant, evil monster that's going to eat us."

Hermione pursed her lips. "Nonsense. We're looking for history. It'll be in these books, we've just got to find the right one..." The minutes dragged by, and the hands on the clock seemed to turn at a cruelly accelerated speed of their own. Twice Hermione looked up to find that an hour had passed. Now it was one in the morning, and she was looking at another dead end. She knew that the offspring of the Grey Man and the Balrog would take on the most horrifying characteristics of its parents. There was no doubt it would inherit the body of the Balrog, wreathed in fire, standing at perhaps twenty five feet tall, give or take. And then the dark, psychic prowess of the Grey Man - a psychic evil so great, it could cause a man to go mad in a matter of seconds. Hermione shivered visibly, and continued turning pages in the _Malum Insania_. From her readings in _The Blessed Few_, she knew that psychic demons could be counterattacked with strongly telepathic humans. But, to her dismay, telepathy was not mentioned in a single book she had come across so far. In fact, she couldn't ever remember reading anything substantial about telepathy before _The Blessed Few_. Things weren't adding up. Why wouldn't there be records, documents, hell _anything_ concerning the mental disciplines? She bit her lip painfully, and viciously swatted at the next page.

"I think I've found something." Hermione's head snapped up to look at Harry. His green eyes were almost indistinguishable under the flickering firelight reflection in his glasses, but she could tell he was excited. He climbed off his chair and joined Ron and Hermione on the floor, spreading the book between the three.

"Here," he pointed to a grotesque drawing of a Balrog, the Grey Man, and the child they had created. Hermione breathed a great sigh of fear, goose bumps starting on her arms and neck. Harry went on.

"It says here that the demon was defeated by two powerful wizards, by the use of a difficult invocation spell. The spell allowed them to take control of lightening for a short time span. Since lightening is pure, it's supposed to be able to send the demon back to Hell. But see, look here," Harry gestured to another sketch, in which the monster was spirited away into a black crevice, surrounded by shades, "It didn't work right. Something went wrong, see the two wizards?" Hermione looked closer at the picture, and saw the two wizards lying still on the ground. "They died before the spell could be completed. So the demon went back to Hell, but it wasn't crippled like it was supposed to be. It could come back."

Ron peered closely at the pictures, and then looked searchingly at Harry. "So that's it? They just happened to snuff it at the exact moment the monster was going back into Hell? What a pain in the arse, the least they could've done is finished the job." He moaned dramatically, and flung himself on his back, covering his eyes. Harry turned to Hermione, annoyed with Ron's juvenile display.

"What do you make of this?" Hermione looked alarmingly blank.

Harry's eyes faltered on her, blinked, then slid back to the book. He clenched his fists tight, willing them to stop trembling. He'd never seen anything like these pictures before, and the sight of the monsters, even though they were only in pencil sketch, was terrifying. He couldn't even begin to imagine the possibility of facing one down.

"I don't know," she whispered breathlessly, "I just don't know."

"I do."

Harry and Hermione whipped around. Tate stood behind the couch, looking imposing and mysterious. The firelight danced on the features of her face, making her eyes glitter and reflect sinisterly, like a cats', while the rest of her figure was shrouded in the darkness of the room. Ron sat up like a shot, and his eyes darkened considerably at the sight of her. She moved silently around the couch, and came to stand beside Hermione. She regarded the three solemnly before sitting.

"The two wizards died from exhaustion." She pointed to the two prone figures. "The invocation of lightening is extremely difficult, and a fantastic drain on the resources of the people doing it. Death is usually expected, but these guys had bad timing. The spell wasn't finished, the demon wasn't crippled."

"Yes, we've established that," snapped Ron.

She ignored him. "To invoke lightening, you need two telepaths. They're the only kind of people that can withstand such intense power. Unfortunately, they've got to be special kinds of telepaths. One of them has to be pyrokinetic. The other has to be untrained."

"Wait," Harry interrupted her. She looked up from the book. "Why does it matter which one is untrained? Why can't the pyrokinetic be untrained?"

"Because an untrained pyrokinetic will die after their powers emerge. Without proper instruction, they won't be able to control it, and eventually they end up incinerating themselves," replied Hermione.

"Right," said Tate, glancing at Hermione.

"I don't get it. Why would one of them need to be untrained? Sounds rather daft to me." Ron voiced what no one would say. Three pairs of eyes fixed themselves on Tate.

She shrugged. "I don't know why, I didn't make up the goddamn spell. I've heard lots of reasoning for it, nothing seems to cover it fully though. I think that its set up this way so you have like a dichotomy...on one hand, you've got this machine that's been programmed specifically for situations such as these. On the other...you've got this bundle of raw, pure talent. Talent that has developed solely on its own, with no structure or foundation."

"But that's impossible," Hermione interjected, "Every telepath or telekinetic or what have you _must_ be instructed following emergence. That is by law! And there is no way anyone would somehow miss the birth of a telepath, they're all well recorded and tracked."

Now Harry and Ron were really confused. Like most other wizards, they knew little to nothing about telepathy beyond a loose (and incorrect) definition.

"You're half right," Tate said, "Every telepath, telekinetic, and pyrokinetic _is_ recorded, and the U.N.M. (A/N: United Nations of Magic) keeps hardcore tabs on them. _But_, they _always _make sure that there is at least one untrained telepath per generation. Otherwise, we'd be defenseless against demonic invasion, if there ever were to be one."

"But they can't control whether or not a pyrokinetic will be alive at any given time," countered Hermione.

"That part is luck," Tate said, matter-of-factly.

Ron laid on his side, propping his head with his hand. "Right, so where do we find an untrained telepath and a pyrokinetic at one in the morning on a Friday?"

"I'm a pyrokinetic. Dumbledore knows who the untrained telepath is." Knowingly, Tate glanced at Hermione, but Hermione was steadily avoiding her eyes.

Harry rolled his eyes. "I knew that was coming." He shifted his view to Hermione. "Is this what you've been refusing to tell me about her?"

"Mostly." Hermione smiled at him.

"Oh great," he moaned, "So what else is in her past?"

"There's nothing in my past," Tate snapped, looking offended, "My childhood was not abnormal, there is nothing dark or mysterious about me, and I am not a vampyre." She emphasized this last word with searing glare at Harry. He faltered, and felt a bit guilty. He scowled as Hermione gave him an "I-told-you-so" look.

Tate continued. "My training was conducted in the same fashion as every other pyrokinetic since the sixteenth century. I have a loving family, and I attended muggle school. That is it, my life, end of story."

She fixed Harry with an intimidating glare, daring him to contradict her. Harry cleared his throat, and adjusted his glasses, feeling very uncomfortable. For several months now, he had been silently accusing her of something malevolent. Now she had told him that she was here to dispatch a demon, thereby proving her alignment with the good side. He had no reason not to believe her. The argument she presented made sense, in an odd sort of way. He was so lost in his own thoughts that he barely noticed when Tate and Hermione bade goodnight and left. He didn't notice when Ron began to snore, his face half buried in the still open book. Through his haze of dizziness and sleepiness, the dull, warningly familiar ache that started in his scar barely had time to register before his head fell onto his shoulder in a deep sleep.


	6. Flight

No one ever seemed to take time to admire the dark gray stone that constructed the whole of Hogwarts Castle. Oh sure, nearly every student and faculty member had paid their respects to the admiration of the sheer size and beauty that the school had to offer. But the abundant rough stone that comprised it...no one spared enough attention to notice. Often people stared at the stone walls, the stone floors, the stone ceilings...but without really seeing it. Without appreciation and without care. People stared at walls for reasons - to stare into vacant space for the purposes of losing themselves in thought - an innate respect for the chaotic, imperfect structure of the masonry went unobserved - a severe disrespect (according to some) for the material that held up the entire school. However, this evening, someone paid attention.

Tate Blackeberry sat on the window settee, her back against the wall of the alcove, one long arm extended. Her fingertips barely grazed the rough surface of the stone. Were an onlooker to happen upon the scene, he or she would've seen a nondescript figure lost in daydream, absentmindedly tracing finger patterns on the dark walls.

But there was no onlooker's subjugation, only the brutal cold imparted by the thick glass of the window and the howl of the wind outside.

Her skin was screaming. It occurred to her that her entire body might simply burst into bright flame in its haste to run. It was like her cells were shivering, dividing, and preparing to scatter in all directions. Her fingertips tingled with a nervous fire that twisted and turned mercilessly, causing endless goosebumps to rise on her tensed arms. Her heart was beating irregularly - fast, then slow, then fast again, and in all the wrong places - as though it were begging and pleading and beating against the prison of bone and sinew that encased it. It cried out desperately for freedom, and Tate began to fear her own heart would burst straight out of her chest and run away.

_Ha, that'd be funny, _she thought wryly, imagining what Lavender might do if a tiny, shrieking human heart with legs came hurtling past her. The smile didn't reach her mouth. Her teeth were chattering and this irritated her greatly. She had never been one to show weakness - she'd been conditioned not to. Show weakness or fear to an enemy, and show him the road to victory.

Never in her life had she encountered such anticipation and stark terror. It was beyond nausea, beyond tears, beyond screaming bloody murder.

_Ten years for this_, she whispered to herself, _Remember your instruction. Who you are. _She snorted when she realized her conscience was giving her a pep talk. It was ridiculous, but strangely calming. No, that was a lie - calm had ceased to exist since she had encountered Dobby the house-elf and discovered that the time had come. The Grey Man was awake, and the door to psychic demonic warfare was opening. It took months to arrange deals as such, but usually much longer to actually awaken the demon with whom the deal was constructed. Somehow Voldemort had managed to jump the gun. At best, they had three months to prepare. She was wasting time reminding herself of what she already knew, which was fine. Better than brooding, anyways.

The biting cold pierced her t-shirt. Usually, she could ignore this - it had been one of her first lessons after all. How to turn off her mind and faze out her surroundings until there was a single focus that blocked all other stimulus. Wonderingly, she reflected back upon her two month tenure at Hogwarts. She had played the part of the sheltered bird well - not too fragile, not too strong. Funnily enough, at muggle school, her fear of people was insurmountable, a delicate house of cards that was destined to crash. At magic school, she was fine...well, had been fine. People had been easier to read, but not in a simplistic way. They had just seemed...natural to her. In fleeting moments, it reminded her of being back with the boys and Niels.

She clenched her fists a bit tightly at the memories, drawing blood against her scarred palms. Her hands looked purple and deadened in the bluish light, thin skin stretched over bone. _Like butter, scraped over too much bread_, echoed a kindly voice in her head. She smiled slightly, briefly wondering if a Rivendell did, in fact, exist. _Too bad Hermione is asleep - she'd know._

Tate continued to study and trace patterns on the granite masonry and proceeded to terrify herself into a restless doze, while Hermione tossed fitfully in her sleep.

----------

Hermione sat in the common room, immersed in her studying. People were being louder than she would have liked, but she sighed and continued her Arithmancy homework.

Suddenly, it felt as though the room began to shake. Her glass of water trembled, and toppled right off the end table. A low growl echoed off the walls. Students stopped their chatting and began to look around in confusion. And then...a blast louder than the Hogwarts Express hitting a brick wall at 200 miles per hour, and Hermione jumped a mile, scattering her books and papers all over the floor. She looked around in wild confusion to find Fred and George Weasley setting off Filibuster Fireworks, right behind her chair.

They were shouting in her face. "Wake up, Hermione!"

"Go 'way."

"Hermione, wake up!" They began to shake her. "Hermione, WAKE UP!" Hermione opened her eyes and found herself in her own bed, Tate shaking her. She sat up.

"What is it? Are you having more nightmares?" Tate shook her head, her eyes bursting with an unnamable fear.

"Something has happened. Can't you feel it?" Hermione stared at her, her mouth open, suddenly aware of an electrical smell. Tate placed her hand on Hermione's shoulder. Heat like fire diffused through her body, from the spot Tate had laid her hand, a horrible sense of dread and danger filling her. She could hear, smell, and even taste the evil all around her. Without a word, both jumped up and tore down the stairs to the Common Room.

Everyone was awake. Furniture had turned over, and books had fallen from their perches.

"What's going on?" Lavender was screaming, "It sounded like the castle was under attack!" Students were huddled together, some of them crying. Harry and Ron fought their way over to Hermione. Harry looked at her, his eyes showing his fear plainly.

"It's Voldemort," he whispered, "I can feel him." He passed a hand over his scar, which was now throbbing with pain.

Hermione shook her head, not wanting to believe. She opened her mouth to cite any other rational explanation that could be had, but Professor McGonagall stepped between them.

"You three," she demanded, looking pointedly at Ron, Hermione, and Harry, "Come with me now." Tate turned and disappeared through the girl's dormitory. Hermione, Ron, and Harry followed Professor McGonagall through the portrait hole. Struggling to keep up with the storming Professor, Hermione tripped, only to have Harry seize her shoulder before the ground rushed up to meet her, and on they went.

They stopped in front of a very familiar stone gargoyle.

"Pumpkin Pasty!" shouted Professor McGonagall. The gargoyle turned and revealed the doorway to Professor Dumbledore's office. Harry, Ron, and Hermione followed her through, and found themselves under the ice blue gaze of Professor Dumbledore.

"Much to my chagrin, we have no time for passing pleasantries," Dumbledore began, "Something very serious has happened. Hogwarts has sustained a massive attack." Hermione, suddenly unable to cope with the magnitude of the situation, sank to the floor on buckled knees. Harry knelt beside her, unable to do anything more than twist his fingers in her hair.

"What happened?" Ron posed his question in a broken, terrified voice. Professor McGonagall's face contorted, the prominent blue vein in her forehead pulsing with fear. Or maybe it was anger. Dumbledore looked severe.

"The Astronomy Tower was attacked with an Implosion Curse."

Hermione gasped. She knew how incredibly dark and detrimental the curse was. Moody, or rather, Barty Crouch posing as Moody, had discussed it with them.

"Two students, Susan Bones and Justin Finch-Fletchley, were killed in this devastating assault." Dumbledore looked with sympathy upon the horrified three. Hermione began crying silently. Ron was dumbstruck, his jaw hanging slack, eyes glazed over. Harry looked up, filled with a hollow, beaten sort of look.

"Voldemort," he spat. Dumbledore nodded to him.

"It seems that, once again, he will only be satisfied with the destruction of Hogwarts, myself, and you. The situation stands as thus. Voldemort has awoken an ancient demon of the deep. There are only two people who can defeat it, and only one who can defeat Voldemort. Harry, your destiny lies as such. Despite our greatest efforts to find an alternate solution to this, it seems that only you will be able to successfully defeat Voldemort, however you cannot do so without the support and presence of your closest friends. At this point, I must ask Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasley to return to the Gryffindor dorms." Harry squeezed Hermione's arms, unwilling to leave her in such a state. Dumbledore gazed at him kindly.

"We will not separate you three for long, but unfortunately, the temporary separation is unavoidable. I will speak with you soon, Harry." With a last glance toward Hermione, Harry disappeared through the door. Dumbledore turned his blue eyes to Hermione - their usual amusing twinkle was nowhere to be found. His voice was grave.

"Hermione, you are to leave Hogwarts, immediately, tonight, and you will leave with Ms. Blackeberry. You will go to an undisclosed location known only to myself. Once there, you will hide. You will not go out among civilization. No one must see you. We will attempt to defeat Voldemort without involving either of you, although that outcome is quite unlikely, even hopeless. When the time comes, the Order of Phoenix will come for you and either assist you in the battle or return you to Hogwarts. Do you understand?" Hermione could only stare at him. It seemed that someone had filled her insides with molten metal - everything burned and shuddered, and her eyes wouldn't focus right. Dumbledore's voice barely managed to penetrate her stupor.

"Hermione, do you know what a telepath is?" Hermione looked at him in confusion. A lesson? Now? Surely there was a better time for this. But, being Hermione Granger, she cleared her throat and spoke.

"A telepath is someone with incredible mental capabilities. They're sensitive to changes in emotion, environment, and atmosphere. They are marked, distinctly, and you can tell who will be a telepath at birth by mark and blood, although its pretty nondescript what the mark might be. It's individualized to each person. They're very rare."

Dumbledore nodded. "Very rare indeed. In fact, there are only 25 known living telepaths in the world today. They are all recorded, here, on this list." He held up a very yellowed sheet of parchment. He gestured to Hermione, and she came to stand at his side and looked at the list. Letters swam all over the page, and she began to tune Dumbledore out as her consciousness balked and scurried around like a caged animal.

"I understand that you believe yourself to be a normal individual. Ms. Blackeberry has informed me that you staunchly disbelieve her assessments of your latent powers. Therefore, I must offer you proof." He held the list up, so she could see it more clearly. The words came sharply into focus, partially, Hermione suspected, due to a charm.

"Read the names to me, if you please, Hermione."

"Aloucious H. Gribben. Albus Dumbledore. Niels K. Boltzmann. Lorelei D. G. Dunwich. Tom M. Riddle. Clione B. Novick. Bryan T. Matheson. Summerre.." Hermione's breath hitched sharply in her throat. She was getting closer. Dumbledore indicated she should read on. She began, shakily, again.

"Summerre...I can't pronounce this last name..."

Dumbledore nodded. "It as all right. Go on."

"Marion L. Cunningham. Hermione M. Granger. Regina H. S - S - Simon..." Hermione, realizing what she had just read, saw blue sparks in front of her eyes. Her knees gave out, and she sat down hard on the ground. This wasn't possible.

_Of course it's possible, stupid!_ fumed her irate conscious, _Stop being difficult!_ Tate had been dropping hints to her for months now, but still - she had _known_ it wasn't possible. But her name...her name was on that list. The list didn't lie, it couldn't - it was bound by magical truth. _Oh god, oh god, oh god..._ The world swam before her, and her throat constricted even tighter. A hand fell onto her shoulder, and she looked up into Dumbledore's solemn face.

"Your destiny awaits, Hermione. If Voldemort succeeds in completing the bargain with the Grey Man - which he will - you and Ms. Blackeberry will be the only defense against it. She will explain everything to you, as we have no time. I will deliver your farewells to Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasley." Confusion clouded her vision and her mind, but something unspoken willed her to get up, and she was on her feet immediately. Before she could reach the door, Dumbledore stopped her. He gestured toward the wall behind his desk.

"Hermione Granger's dorm room," he said sharply, and the wall shimmered, like a reflective pool of water. Hazily, Hermione could make out her bedroom on the other side.

"Collect your belongings and pack them in your trunk. Take only what you must. Do not go to the Common Room, and do not open your door, should anyone knock upon it. Contact with other students would be ill advised, I fear." Hermione's heart sank, although she knew he was right - it would raise questions earlier than necessary. "When you have packed, walk back through your wall and you will find yourself in the Great Hall."

Hermione nodded, and walked quickly through the misty portal, into her bedroom.

Tate's side of the room was in complete disarray, clothes thrown haphazardly all over the bed, boxes torn open, books strewn across the floor. Flustered and rushed, Hermione crammed all of her clothes, books, and other knick knacks into her trunk.

"_Nullus Onus,_" she muttered, and her trunk became as light as a feather. Seizing the handle, she easily pulled it through the iridescent ripples that still graced the wall.

One step through, and another out, and she was standing in front of Dumbledore in the Entrance Hall. Tate was a few feet away from him, looking at the floor. Hagrid came forward and took Hermione's trunk from her. He disappeared through the entrance doors. Dumbledore looked from Hermione to Tate. He lightly pushed her to stand next to Hermione, so they were both facing them. With one hand on Tate's shoulder, the other on Hermione's, he looked at them with something quite similar to admiration.

"The two of you will prepare. Use this," he produced a brightly colored paperback - it reminded Hermione faintly of the trashy romance novels her cousin Amye was so found of. She took it, pocketed it, and swallowed hard. This was it - she was leaving. She was leaving her two best friends behind. Terror began to invade her bloodstream. Dumbledore was talking...somehow, she forced herself to catch the last few words.

"Both of you...Your destiny awaits. I have every faith in all of you. Go."

Tate gently nudged Hermione, who seemed to wake up immediately. Without a word, they turned together and ran out the entrance doors. They passed Hagrid's Hut, the lake, and Hermione gasped a little bit as Tate plunged headlong into the Forbidden Forest.

"Tate, where the bloody hell are we going?" Hermione was horrified, as they had been pushing through some extremely dense thicket for the past ten minutes. It seemed to her they were a bit too deep in the Forbidden Forest for safety's sake.

"Shut up, will you?" came Tate's voice. "Trust me, just keep going." Hermione, not at all trusting anything at this moment, followed anyways, since she did not have a better suggestion at the moment. Sure enough, within a few minutes, Hermione could hear Hagrid's rough voice up ahead. A thorned branch struck her in the face, drawing a line of blood and she swore, pushing through the rest of the brush to reveal a clearing. Something very familiar rested in the clearing, and that familiar sight nearly gave Hermione a heart attack. _Oh good lord_, thought Hermione, _I'm dreaming. There is not a goddamned plane in front of me right now. I'm going to wake up soon, and laugh myself silly. _She tripped and stubbed her toe. _Shit. There goes that idea. I would very much like to know what is going on. I really hope Hagrid is not planning on flying that._

Hagrid looked very grim. Wordlessly, he took the girls' trunks and crammed them into the wing compartment of the tiny aircraft. He slammed it shut, sighed heavily, and turned to face Hermione.

"Best of luck, 'Ermione. I'll be prayin' for yeh." Hagrid began to sniff, and harshly dragged a hand across his beetle-black eyes. One hand tugged on his beard.

"I'm a bit scared!" he sobbed, "But I know yeh'll be all right. Yeh always are. Wish I could come with yeh." He swept up Hermione, nearly crushing her in his arms. Hermione patted his back comfortingly, although she was so terrified she felt faint. He released her as well, and turned Tate.

"Don' know what the 'ell this ruddy thing is," he said gruffly, "But Dumbledore said it's been charmed. Won't run out of fuel, won't be picked up by any radar, magic or muggle, whatever all tha' means. Best of luck, my -" Whatever else he was planning to say was lost, as he began crying hysterically, and disappeared into the dark. Hermione's vision began to blur.

Tate took one look at Hermione's paling complexion and realized that time was of the essence. A few more seconds, and Hermione would either pass out, or refuse to get in the plane.

"Get in. Now." Tate seized her arm, and Hermione felt herself being pushed into the aircraft. Tate lifted her into the rear passenger seat, buckled her in as though she were a child, and then sat down at the controls. Hermione was looking at everything through a fog when the world began to spin. A loud whirring sound filled her ears. As the plane lifted off the ground, Hermione's head fell back and she saw only darkness...mingled with the nightmare that was blooming into a reality...

----------

The Gryffindor Common Room was heavy with pain. Students sat hunched over, huddled in packs, as though human contact would save them from the sub-zero evil that loomed over them like a black layer of ice. Professor McGonagall stood in front of the fireplace, addressing her house without her trademark severity. She spoke in a monotone voice that shook every once in a while. Her lips pursed together more tightly than normal as she calmly explained the dire events of the past few hours. There were no reactions as of yet. Minerva's words fell like massive bricks on the floor of a silent auditorium.

"Classes will be cancelled tomorrow as the faculty convenes with the Ministry of Magic. Several counselors have been called in to help students deal with the stress you will experience in lieu of these circumstances." She drew in a deep breath and surveyed the room in front of her. Eyes were glazed, jaws slackened, and no one seemed to be looking at her. Eyes were trained everywhere except upon the messenger. "I'd tell you to go to bed now, which you definitely should, but I'd be daft if I truly thought you would. I will be back in to check on you periodically throughout the night." She turned, and was gone, the portrait hole clanging hollowly behind her.

On the loveseat, which normally accommodated two small children comfortably, Seamus, Parvati, Lavender, and Dean were sandwiched together. Lavender gripped Dean's hands so tightly that blood circulation had been cut off for nearly fifteen minutes. Parvati stared unseeingly into the fire, tears pouring down her cheeks in an endless river. Seamus had a careless arm thrown around her, hugging his friend to his chest protectively. Her cutting gibes concerning Seamus's well known indiscretion behind Ginny's back were silent, for the first time since its occurrence. Neville sat in a chair, clutching Trevor to him feverishly, as though the oblivious toad was the only thing protecting him from the collapsing world. Everyone was lost in their thoughts, their nightmares, their fear. No one noticed the redheaded girl slip out of the portrait hole, in the fading firelight.

----------

A tiny spider carefully repaired a ragged hole in his web. He swore occasionally to himself as he painstakingly respun the necessary silk to close the opening. When his work was finally done, he lazily skittered over to the corner of his prided abode and prepared to feast upon some flies as a late supper. But before he even got close to the carefully wrapped bundles of sustenance, the silver object that often careened haphazardly across the floor slammed into the wall on which his spiderweb lay. The spider fumed uselessly as a multitude of blue sparks shot into the air. He screamed in fury as the left side of his web was disintegrated immediately by the airborne embers.

"Stupid kids!"

Draco Malfoy looked on lifelessly as the remote controlled car that he and Tate had worked so tirelessly to build was slowly consumed by blue fire. He didn't even bother to put the flame out with his wand.

_What does it matter anyways?_ Draco dropped the remote control and scrubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. He was tired, very tired, but couldn't sleep. Life wasn't making sense right now, nothing seemed coherent in his mind. Voldemort had attacked - the Astronomy Tower and most of the corridor leading to it was completely destroyed. Two Hufflepuffs were dead. Years ago, Draco might've even referred to the deceased as "useless", but now...now nothing came to mind except sorrow. Unconsciously, he rubbed at his forearm.

Often, in the middle of the night, Draco would wake up in cold sweats, his breathing irregular. In horror, he would tear at his forearm, scratching at an impurity that did not exist. He looked at his unblemished forearm even now. There was no dark mark to be seen, nothing but pure white flesh.

Why then, did it burn as though a mark existed there? It plagued him constantly, a never-ending whine in his brain, a constant reminder of the life he had rejected.

But that life hadn't rejected him. In his heart, he knew why the burn remained. Voldemort wanted him - he wanted him at all costs. However, the terms had changed now. Draco was a traitor, as hated as Severus Snape himself, and how ironic that Snape had been the first person he had come to for help.

Draco was so lost in his own thoughts that it barely registered in his mind when a slight grating noise issued from the entrance tunnel of the room. It was only when Ginny Weasley crawled into the room that he came back to reality.

She sat up quickly, almost guiltily, and assumed the most innocent pose possible.

"Ah. Weasley. Fancy meeting you here." She smiled, half heartedly.

"Do you mind? It's too...well, I'm sure you can understand." He nodded mechanically. "I just couldn't stay in the common room any longer."

"You do realize you are trespassing?" Draco looked at her through an icy veil of gray, and her face fell.

"Oh...I - I'll leave you be then." She turned, and made to exit the room when Draco seized her arm.

"No...you don't have to leave. I could use the company as much as you could." Warmth flooded Ginny's cheeks, and she felt herself smiling at him. Her breath hitched slightly as he smiled back.

----------

An incessant whirring noise brought Hermione out of her haze. She sat up slowly, and light pierced her eyes. Blinking hard, her eyes slowly adjusted to the blinding sunlight pouring through the windshield. Tate sat in the pilot's seat, maneuvering the plane through the fluffy white cloud they had just entered. She glanced back, alerted by Hermione's rustling sounds.

"Aha, you are awake. Come up here with me, girly. I could sure use the company. It's been hours since we left." Hermione roused herself, shaking away the last clings of sleep, and joined Tate at the front of the plane. The fuzzy white cloud faded, and Hermione looked down at blinding white landscape. Everything, except the tip tops of the trees, was covered in snow.

"Where are we?"

"Where we're going." Tate looked thoughtful. "America. Nearly there now." Hermione looked out the window with renewed interest. She had never been to America before. Her parents had always thought it to be vulgar and uneducational.

"See the dials?" Tate gestured to the meters on the dashboard. Every one of them was spinning out of control. "Dumbledore wasn't kidding. The place is magically protected. But don't worry," she added quickly, seeing the fear on Hermione's face, "I've flown to this house at least a hundred times. We'll get there in one piece. I've got the map right here." She tapped the side of her head.

Hermione's thoughts wandered back to the night before. Dumbledore swam back into her mind, and she suddenly recalled the deluge of information that had knocked her over. His words echoed in her mind..._Instruct Hermione as you have been instructed_...

"Why didn't you tell me?" Hermione eyed Tate closely. Tate gawked at her.

"I did! Well, I tried at least. You didn't believe me, which was a good thing, I guess, as I wasn't really supposed to tell you. Dumbledore said you would need to figure it out for yourself. She looked older and tired as she turned a sympathetic eye to Hermione. "I'll tell you whatever you want to know." Hermione took a breath, mulling over her thoughts.

"Alright," she said, "The scar on your right hand." Tate's face hardened considerably.

She moved her left hand back to the controls, and showed Hermione her right hand. Hermione held her breath, and felt that same sense of odd familiarity when she looked at the white scar on Tate's palm. The scar began right below her pinky finger and extended, diagonally, to well below her wrist.

"I can't explain it, per se," she said slowly. "It happened that day, in lab. Everything was on fire, and people were screaming. I just sat there, kind of oblivious to everything, totally in shock. I realized what I'd done, how far I'd gone. My hand just split open. It was me, I did it - like a reaction overload. Does that make any sense?" Hermione shook her head.

"It doesn't make a bit of sense. But I get it...somehow...in a really warped way." Tate smiled wryly.

"How is it you know how to pilot a plane? You...do know how to land, right?"

"I had piloting lessons when I was seven. Planes were highly utilized during my instruction, so I've been doing it for about nine years now."

"That's the second referral I've heard to this 'instruction'. What instruction? Did you get it at muggle school."

Tate shook her head. "I didn't go to muggle school. I only went for one semester, and that was last fall." Hermione made to interject, but Tate glossed right over her interruption. "My 'instruction', as you say, came from Niels. I got my pertinent schooling, wand magic, and potion training from him. I had a language tutor for about six years, a flight instructor, and an engineering instructor. I did a lot of studying at military training facilities too, but that only began when I turned nine. Uh...let's see...I had a few temporary tutors who went over the Dark Arts with me, plus pertinent magic history - there was once this -"

"Wait, stop! You had tutors for magic? You told me you knew nothing about the existence of a magical community!" Tate bit her lip guiltily.

"Oh yeah...that. It was perhaps...a variation of the truth..."

"Try more like a bold-faced lie!"

"Oh all right fine - it was a lie. But in my defense, I knew very little concerning anything that didn't directly have to do with ancient pyrokinetic practices, the Dark Arts, and pretty much all history up until about 1960, excepting the chronology of Voldemort. I didn't know about Quidditch!"

"Oh, well that's practically _nothing_," Hermione scoffed, "You silly, stupid bint, I can't believe you managed to pull an act like that off! And here's me, believing every word and feeling _sorry_ for you!"

"Hey now, that's out of line. I know about the Dark Arts, and the dark creatures that come along with it. I know about past history, but not in detail. Begging your pardon, but that leaves a rather huge amount of important stuff out, wouldn't ya say?"

"Oh fine, I suppose that's true. But why would you lie at all?"

"People don't ask questions if they think you have no answers."

Tate looked at Hermione expectantly, who appeared to be deep in though. Tate rolled her eyes, and decided to keep talking (in hopes it might curb any further anger Hermione might possibly develop). She ripped off her sleeve to catch Hermione's attention, and pointed to a lateral purple line on her left bicep. The coloring was so light, no one would've noticed its existence unless alerted so. But now that Hermione looked at it up close, she could tell the coloring was not typical of flesh.

"That's my mark," Tate said matter-of-factly, "The mark of a telepath." Realization dawned on Hermione.

"Dumbledore confirmed I was a telepath," she stuttered, "So where's my mark?" She sank down in defeat, briefly convinced that Dumbledore's faith was totally misplaced, and the Ministry had misprinted her name.

"I don't know how you can smile at a time like this!" she snapped at Tate, who continued to smile in an irritating, condescending way. She laid her hand on Hermione's, and closed her eyes, eliciting a confused, and slightly bewildered, stare from her. Tate moved her hand up Hermione's arm, down her side, moving to the side of her thigh. Hermione shivered a bit, but allowed Tate to continue down to her knee, and finally, to the back of her calf.

"There." Hermione grabbed the hem of her robes and yanked them up. She twisted her leg around, and looked at her calf. There was nothing, not a single mark, blemish, not even a freckle. Hermione looked at Tate, defeated. Tate smirked, withdrew a small vial from a hidden pocket in her jeans, and splashed the contents onto Hermione's leg. A burning sensation sprang up immediately, and Hermione yelled in pain.

"Don't touch it!" The sharp warning scared her good and clean. Hermione did not touch her leg, which was now green and frothing where the potion had hit. Smoke rose steadily off of it. Tate leaned over, made a rude noise in her throat, and spit on the frothing mess - earning herself a disgusted grimace from Hermione - and then wiped off the excess. A tiny silver cloud marked Hermione's calf. She stared in mute shock.

"What the - I've never seen that before..." She rubbed it, as if unconvinced. Tate nodded.

"Well, you wouldn't would you? It's got to be revealed. Usually happens by accident anyways. I mean, your blood is a dead give away, but you being born in a muggle hospital, I guess they didn't pick up on it right away. Anyways, telepaths sense each other, so Dumbledore probably had you on that list before you could walk."

"Dumbledore is a telepath?"

"Was there ever a doubt in your mind?" Hermione sighed, realizing she'd read his name on the list, and shrugged. "He's got a mark too, of course, but you can't see it like you might be able to see mine or yours." Tate continued, "It's on his knee. Apparently, it's some sort of map, but I can't remember. Can you imagine him in shorts?"

There was silence for a few minutes, as the unpleasant image seemingly danced in front of them. Hermione bit her lip in horror, and banished the disturbing idea. Harry's face surfaced in her mind. She winced as she imagined his fury at her failure to say goodbye.

"Are Harry and Ron to leave Hogwarts as well?"

Tate nodded, "Yeah, but I don't know where they were supposed to actually end up." The tone in her voice changed drastically. "However, I do know that Dumbledore was planning to take them in the opposite direction from us, and it was supposed to happen very shortly after we departed." Hermione raised an eyebrow. Tate was positively seething.

"And what'll they do?" Tate shrugged.

"I only know about our plan. The U.M.N. likes to operate on a "need to know" basis." Hermione nodded, and felt a pang of homesickness. She missed Harry, desperately, already.

"I wonder what they're doing now," she mused thoughtfully. Tate snorted furiously.

"No need. They're in the back, invisible, and completely mistaken in thinking they did the right thing." Hermione jerked upwards and stared at her, slack-jawed. A muffled string of swear words issued from the rear of the aircraft. Tate's mouth was drawn in a furious pout - her eyes remained vacant, but Hermione could feel the irritation emanating from her, in vibrant shades of purple.

A shock of red hair appeared, followed by Ron's lanky frame. Harry was dead asleep, next to him. Ron looked rather guilty, and smiled sheepishly. Hermione leapt out of her seat and threw herself upon Harry, who awoke with a rather girlish yelp.

"Oh Harry, I'd missed you so much already," Hermione was choked with tears, her heart nearly bursting with happiness. The three best friends remained in the back, none of them (most especially the two boys) wanting to test Tate's anger. After a minute or so, Ron slid up in the front passenger seat, and graced her with a half apologetic, half fearful face. She glanced at him sidelong, before shaking her head sarcastically.

"This is a remarkably stupid thing you've done," she said acidly.

Harry was quick to defend him. "Well we weren't about to leave Hermione alone."

"Appreciated," Tate ground out, trying very hard to get a hold of her temper, "But you are red-flagged, Harry. _Everyone_ is looking for you. You two were supposed to divert the attention away from us, by leaving with Professor Dumbledore. Now that's all shot to hell, and I'll beat McGonagall is having a coronary."

"Are you saying we were bait?" asked Ron, looking shocked. Harry made a small noise in the back of his throat. He looked simply murderous, and Hermione forcefully put a hand on his shoulder.

"Bait," she echoed thoughtfully. "Not so much. Just a diversion. Y'all were supposed to take the attention off of us long enough for the cloaking spell to take effect. After we went off radar, activated the invisibility mechanism, and triggered whatever other charms necessary, y'all were supposed to return to Hogwarts. From thereon, y'all had a very covert little escape plan all worked out." She let out a deep exhalation.

"Pretty soon, it's going to be obvious y'all aren't at Hogwarts, and the only place you could've gone is on the little muggle plane that left in the middle of the night with two girls.

"But how in the world cou--" Tate silenced Ron with a glare that could cleave solid steel.

"Voldemort wouldn't be a formidable enemy if he wasn't smart. The Death Eaters have a great reconnaissance technique. The charms on this plane didn't take full effect until we actually flew over the coast of Scotland. They know we're heading west, and it won't be long before they know that she's," she jerked her head sharply at Hermione, "half of the equation designed to bring down their happy helper. That, plus y'alls highly publicized history together. A child could figure it out."

"So they'll know we're a threat against the balrog," concluded Hermione, "And they'll try to kill us." Tate paused.

"Actually, that's one thing working in our favor - it'll hopefully take them a while longer to figure that part out."

"Why," asked Harry. His voice was flat and lifeless and he was staring at the back of her seat with renewed hatred.

"Because, technically, I don't exist. If I don't exist, then there's no viable threat against the demon." Ron burst out laughing and Harry snorted in complete disbelief. He muttered something under his breath and Hermione jabbed him with her elbow. She edged closer to Tate's chair.

"Don't get me wrong Tate, but that's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. How could you not exist?"

"Because, according to my records, I died, in jail, two and a half months ago."

"So," interjected Harry, "Big fucking deal. You 'die' in the muggle world and move straight into the wizarding world, using the same name. Really ingenious plan, I stand in awe." Ron unconsciously shrank back in his chair. He didn't want to be the random kid who got smacked by the furious girl.

"Well, Harry," Tate said dryly, "I wouldn't expect you to understand. There's a lot more to it beyond your limited range of knowledge." Harry opened his mouth to retort, but the plane suddenly jolted, and the three passengers who weren't buckled into their seats went toppling over one another.

"Buckle up," ordered Tate, "I'm going to land now. And if I'm not mistaken, it's going to be rather rough." Hermione suddenly felt cold all over as she watched the snow fall in thick white sheets over the windshield.

The remaining ten minutes of the ride were not pleasant. The tiny aircraft was jostled in all directions by the strong winds and snow. Ron turned a highly unpleasant shade of green when Tate began struggling furiously with the controls. The plane banked to the left, straightened, and then crashed into the side of a mountain.

Or so Hermione thought. The atmosphere as seen through the glass was hostile. The snow was blinding, and had nearly covered the windshield in the few minutes that they spent casting weightless spells on their trunks. Hermione cast warming spells over everyone, but, according to her calculations, they would afford little to no protection against the wind chill. Tate quickly explained that the house they would call home indefinitely was about fifty feet away from their position in the plane. How she could tell was beyond any of them, though.

It took all four of them to shove and force the door (which was hindered by the packed snow) open. Hermione gasped as the sub-zero winds poured into the plane, nearly knocking her over with their gale-force power. She was right, the warming spell was almost completely ineffective. The freezing cold air burned their hands and faces, and whipped their hair into their eyes. They hobbled out of the plane, Ron first, then Hermione, Harry, and finally Tate, who insisted on keeping up the rear. Harry glared at her lack of reaction to the climate. He, Ron, and Hermione couldn't stop shaking, and she acted as though someone had left a window open. He had no time to further pursue this annoyance however, as the snow formed a partition between him and his three companions. He vaguely heard Tate kick the door shut. Then they began to walk, in a single file line, trudging through the knee-deep snow. The heavy snow was falling like a white sheet now, blinding them. Ron walked right into a tree. Hermione gasped as he swore loudly and fell backward, right into her.

"There!" shouted Tate, her voice a mere whisper over the howling winds, "Just a little further, I can see the house!" Hermione struggled to keep up. Her robes were soaked up to her thighs from the snow. Her face felt as though it were being burned off by the harsh, relentless winds. She was losing feeling in her feet, her knees, and the numbing pains were slowly creeping up her thighs. Her mind began to cloud.

_I should just sit down and rest. Yes, I think I'll do that. Really, all this is just a bit too much, I'll just sit here for one minute..._

She sank into the snow, exhaustion overtaking her. Her mind was whirling, and she thought of nothing but closing her eyes and sleeping. The wind was howling like a banshee, and she began to drift away into a peaceful dream...

Rough hands seized her shoulders and dragged her up. She felt herself lifted and thrown over someone's broad shoulders. Her world faded.

Harry, struggling under the added weight of Hermione, fought his way to the front steps of the house on pure adrenaline. The reality and severity of the situation sliced through him like a white hot knife. They were kids, only sixteen years old. They were alone in a foreign country, surrounded by a raging blizzard. If one of them were to be injured, they could not call a doctor. There were no adults around at all. And the fate of the wizarding world - no - the whole world, rested on their shoulders. And he had gotten himself into this mess. Senses reeling, he kicked open the front door and stepped through.


	7. Revelations

Harry stepped through the door just as Tate flipped on a light switch, filling the room with unpleasantly harsh halogen lighting. He stumbled toward a ratty couch, banging his knee on a low coffee table, and depositing Hermione onto the mottled yellow cushions. The couch, he noted, was covered in stains. Much like the wood floor. He returned his attention to Tate. She had her back to him, fiddling with the door. There were at least seven locks upon it, including the one built into the handle. She set a thick wooden bar against the door, and turned to face the room.

"OK. Now you will explain to me what the bloody fuck is going on." Harry glared harshly at Tate. When she looked at him, her eyes were plainly bored and annoyed. But a glance at Ron caused her expression to change to near hurt. Ron looked at her, severely expectant, the familiar seething hatred apparent in his furrowed brow and flashing eyes. Hermione was still unconscious on the couch, now swaddled with the musty blankets that had been carelessly thrown over it.

"Why are we here?"

Tate sighed exhaustively. "_You_ are not supposed to be here, you stubborn bastard."

"Well, there's nothing to be done about that now. Why did you bring _her _here." He gazed down at Hermione and placed a hand protectively on one of her shoulders.

"It's for our safety," she said slowly. Harry's brow furrowed in disbelief.

"What?" she spat. She was furious now, and very close to her breaking point. "You think I'm fucking with you? You think I took Hermione to some horrible place so I could kill her? Well, you're right." She drew herself up to her full height, which looked even more considerable than usual, what with her blazing fury against their exhausted stares. She glared down menacingly at Harry and Ron. She actually looked, to Harry's slight amusement, incredibly intimidating. He had no further time to muse on this, however, because Ron was on his feet, and he seized Tate's wrist.

"Not on my life, bitch," he said threateningly. She smirked at Harry, a sarcastic, irritated expression. He was briefly reminded of Draco Malfoy. In a flash of movement, a grunt, and a yelp of surprise, Harry was met with Ron's impossibly long legs flying straight up and down again. He landed hard, in a heap at Harry's feet, upsetting the coffee table. It took Harry more than a few moments to realize that Ron had just been flipped over a shoulder. A _girl's _shoulder. Harry might've laughed, but he was too busy glaring at the culprit, who brought her face within inches of his. He didn't shrink away, even as her eyes hardened into black diamonds. She didn't move a muscle, and the two stared each other down.

"Do you really think," she began in what she hoped was an even, controlled voice, "That Hagrid and Dumbledore would assist me in orchestrating her untimely death, and now yours as well?" Her voice became deadly. "Do I look like a Death Eater to you?"

Harry decided to remain silent, instead of saying, "You're missing the mask and the cloak". He had a rather premonitory vision that something bad might happen to him if he said such a thing. She continued on, her voice gradually getting lower. By the end, she was hissing more so than speaking.

"I'd rather drink poison. I'd think last night made it obvious that Hogwarts is no longer safe. So while you're deciding which side you really think I'm on, I'm going to go make some food. You'll let me know? If you do decide I'm a Death Eater, I suggest you attempt to attack me when my back is turned. You don't want to fuck with me when I'm facing you." She kicked Ron hard, in the ribs. He howled, and grabbed his side.

She leaned over. "That's for calling me a bitch!" She spun on her heel, and disappeared into the kitchen.

Harry and Ron were more or less frozen in shock. Hermione was beginning to stir, but Harry could barely pay attention. He was half convinced that Tate meant only to help them, but it wasn't as though he had any other choice. He looked at Ron, who was still prone on the ground.

"How's your ribs, mate?"

"Hurts like a bastard. Me back, too."

"Perhaps you should not've called her a bitch."

"I suppose not," Ron said laughing mildly, "But then again, with the way she was swearing, I didn't really think it would matter now, did I?" Harry laughed nervously along with him. The smell of food began wafting from the kitchen. Ron and Harry looked to each other.

"Guess I'll go help then," said Ron, getting to his feet, "If you hear any screaming..."

"I'll come rescue you?" offered Harry, with a lopsided grin. Ron laughed, and shook his head. He walked (limped was more like it) into the kitchen. Harry slid off the couch, onto the floor, and rested his head on Hermione's thighs. Immediately, he was asleep.

Ron made his way into the kitchen. It was quite odd - nothing like his own kitchen, back at the Burrow. The clock on the wall had the numbers one through twelve on it - nothing else. There was a small, round table in the center of the room. The floor was made of thick wooden planks, and dust was everywhere. Like the living room, it looked like no one had been here for years. The oven was ancient, but somehow it was working, and Ron could see something boiling in a pot on the stove. Tate, however, had perched herself on the counter, with her knees drawn up to her chest, her face hidden in them. She was shaking, as if she were crying. From this angle, she looked quite small and vulnerable. Her Hogwarts robes had been discarded, leaving her in a thin, black t-shirt sans one sleeve, and ripped, threadbare jeans. Ron went to her, and cleared his throat.

"I know you're there," she mumbled. "Go away."

"Oh come on now, we both know you want me to stay. I'm irresistible." She raised her head to look at him, propping an elbow on her knee. She was not crying, but there was an empty look in her eyes, save for the faint glimmer of electricity that was always there. Ron's pulse quickened, but only slightly. The old feelings he had for her began to whine and gnaw at him, sneakily crawling their way back. He quickly crammed them back into his subconscious. He regarded her solemnly, and she sighed and closed her eyes. Awkwardly, Ron placed a hand on her shoulder in a gesture of peace. He was mildly surprised when she immediately placed her hand over his, and patted it.

"I can't believe you threw me over your shoulder."

She began to laugh, and Ron smiled, glad to hear it once again. He hadn't heard her laugh in weeks.

----------

Hermione opened her eyes, and attempted to focus them. Fatigue sent black and blue sparks through her line of vision, giving her a light-headed feeling. She scrubbed her eyes with the back of her hand and looked around. The dim light came from the fireplace, and a few lamps.

_Lamps? Wait a minute...there's no electricity at Hogwarts!_ Then the past twelve hours came flooding back to her, and she remembered, grimly, that she was in America. Blinking, she looked around at the rest of the room. There were some very odd things indeed, and she wondered who the hell would keep a cabin quite like this one. The walls, painted a sickening yellow, were more or less covered with pictures of scantily clad women and faded photographs. There were advertisements, ranging from very early in the 20th century to as recent as the Absolut Vodka ad of last fall. Hermione recalled seeing it in her father's GQ magazine on the train back from France (to her horror, her mother had unpacked all of her books prior to their departure).

The furniture was no less than horrific. Everything was old and moth-eaten and...well...completely heinous came to mind. All the colors were wrong, awful, and inexcusably mismatched. An old radio sat in the corner, and it looked as if someone had kicked it more than once. The couch smelled of mildew and dust. Hermione was faintly amused and disgusted (she couldn't decide which), and raised herself off the couch, knocking Harry, whom she hadn't noticed, to the ground on accident. Laughing as he shook himself awake, she offered him her hand. He took it, and stood.

"Bit of a rough situation, this?" Hermione nodded emphatically. She looked more closely at the walls. There were pictures, endless pictures, and in no particular order. She moved closer to the wall opposite the couch. A large poster of Betty Page, wrinkled and faded with time, was situated in the center of the wall, and all around it were photographs of varying age. Amidst the garish array of colorful pictorials and posters, she came across a montage of shiny, magical photographs, crammed haphazardly between a semi-nude poster of 1991's Playmate of the Year and an advertisement for Life Cereal. Sixteen or so photographs - all magical and moving - were glued to a scrap of cardboard, each with a silver caption attached. Judging by the different degrees of glossiness, the photos varied pretty radically with age.

It was definitely an odd collection. In the center photo, five very young men, boys really, dressed in black and green camouflage clothing and covered in mud and brush, smiled and waved at the camera, against the backdrop of a pleasant brownish green landscape. A rickety brown cabin was visible in the left-hand side of the picture. _This house?_ she wondered silently. Her gaze wandered over the adjacent photographs. The same five young men were featured in nearly every photo. Hermione was briefly reminded of Fred and George Weasley when she noticed that two of the young men were identical twins, straight down to the matching eagle tattoos on their respective left forearms. Hermione knitted her brows together. The antics of some identical twins... She directed her gaze to another photo. The five laughed and grinned at her from a massive black jeep, each waving a terrifying, black carbine rifle. They were dressed in matching, skin-tight black fatigues to boot.

"Adorable color scheme," she muttered sarcastically to herself.

"Thanks cutie," drawled a dark-haired man, winking roguishly at her. Hermione grinned. They greeted her again from a lake, all in SCUBA attire, happily splashing water toward her. In another, four of the young men sat on a dusty looking porch, a pyramid of cheap American beer built up behind them - every so often, the fifth man would run by and alternately moon the camera and his companions, drawing whooping laughs from the porch.

Other pictures were not so happy. A shot from the coach of an aircraft featured four of the five. They stared somberly at the open aircraft door, where an elderly man stood. He was holding an intricate, silver urn, and spreading the ashes through the door, into the screaming air. When the urn was emptied, the remaining four stood and lined up at the door. Each placed a kiss on a picture tacked to the plane wall, before leaping out the doorway in succession. Hermione squinted and saw that the picture was of one of the twins. Hermione was pained slightly when she realized that there was only one twin remaining, and his face was shielded by his ski mask and hat, eyes covered in mirror like sunglasses. She shook her head sadly and watched who she assumed to be the surviving twin hesitate briefly, place a kiss on the picture, and dive straight out the door with no hesitation. In the grand tradition of magical photographs, the skydivers would reappear in the coach every few minutes. The caption read, "_Cody Chalker, 1974-1995. May he fly free forever_."

_Only 21_, she mused, _How awful_. Vaguely, she wondered how he died. Her eyes fell upon the picture below the funeral. The remaining four men were walking away from the camera, heads down, dressed in their matching, black fatigues again, complete with black woolen caps. The picture was dated three months after the funeral, and Hermione was rather surprised to see a very radical change in one of the young men. She surmised that it must've been the surviving twin, as they were by far the tallest of the group. In any case, his build had decreased substantially, by at least thirty percent, maybe more, in mass - he was more aptly described as slenderly cut, even lanky, in comparison with the formidable, bodybuilder-esque physiques of the other three. The height appeared to be the same, taller than the others, but there was no twin to compare it against. She checked an earlier photo, and raised her eyebrows at the obscene distinction. The twin must've been taking his brother's death remarkably hard. She estimated he'd lost at least a third, if not half of his body mass a mere six months prior. She shook her head. The last picture on the board displayed a caption that read, "_Sniper School, Cambodia, 1996"_. The surviving four compatriots were situated in prone position, beneath a massive dead tree. Four matching Sniper rifles on tripods sat in front of each respective sniper. They were all grinning wildly, barely able to contain their raw excitement - their faces lit up even beneath the black and green grease paint streaks that marked each of them. Hermione had to grin, as well - especially since she was getting winks from the strapping, raven haired rogue again (he resembled a much younger Sirius Black - though Hermione would never admit she found that look attractive to Harry).

"Jesus." Hermione jumped a mile. Harry was standing right up against her, looking at the photographs.

"Oh, real nice, Harry!" she snapped, "You might've given me a heart attack!" A half smile played on his lips as he squinted at the cardboard. He removed his glasses, swiped them quickly against his sweater, and put them on again. No change.

Hermione noticed the confusion, then realization register on his face. She raised her eyebrows at him questioningly. He noticed her, and nodded toward the picture, the one of the Sniper School.

"That's Tate," he said matter-of-factly, "Second from the left, that's her." Hermione snorted.

"You're off your tree - it's the same five boys in every picture...well four in some. Don't see how you could possibly tell what with the paint all over their faces." But she looked closer anyways.

And was stunned to discover that Harry was right. Tate was nestled in comfortably among the other three. The surviving identical twin was gone - Tate was in his proverbial place, gripping a gun with her face smeared black and green. Hermione's brow furrowed as her mind began to whir. Harry eyed her amusedly - watching Hermione work something out in her head was never boring.

Hermione looked back over the pictures - studying the twins. She looked pointedly at one of photographs (the caption noted it to be in Nevada, June of 1993) in which all five boys were shirtless, and posing unabashedly at the camera. Hermione squinted, and noted a massive black and purple bruise spanning the elbow of one of the twins. She had to wait a few seconds before the other one finally turned, to give her a split second view of his elbow. A corresponding bruise was etched in exactly the same place as his brothers.

"_Polyjuice Potion_," she whispered, barely audible. Everything suddenly fell into place. The earliest date recorded on the photographs was 1990, and all five of the men were but boys - maybe fifteen at the oldest.

So that was how Tate managed to receive professional military training as early as nine years old. Hermione didn't realize, but she said this out loud.

"That's right," came a voice from across the room. She inclined her head and regarded Tate with an odd expression.

"I was nine and a half when I went into active training. Somewhere in this house is a much bigger album." She shrugged, slightly.

"Maybe you should explain this over dinner?" suggested Harry, who couldn't ignore the smell of soup wafting through the kitchen door. She nodded swiftly, and disappeared through the doors, Harry trailing at her heels. Hermione took a last look at the montage, before turning and making her way toward the distinct smell of beef stew.

Dinner was wordless and uncomfortable. They ate quickly, voraciously, as though someone would appear and tell them they would be allowed no more food.

"Dishes in the sink. We've got a lot to discuss. See you in the living room."

----------

Hermione sat on the couch with Harry, Ron in the overstuffed chair. Tate reclined in a rocking chair, facing the three of them. A bottle of Spanish tequila sat on the coffee table that separated Tate from the other three - she had told them they would need it. Tate looked at them with serious appraisal. She began slowly, as though she were still choosing her words.

"We are here for specific reasons. Like I said, protection and safety is a main concern." She looked pointedly at Harry, as he had not believed her earlier.

"Just for your information, there are wards and hexes up all around this place. It's also unplottable.

In the meantime, until we are called back by Dumbledore, we stay. Technically, this place doesn't really exist to the outside world. Like I said, totally unplottable, and very isolated. The deed records were destroyed in a fire, so there is no way we can be traced. We are allowed no post, no contact with anyone, we cannot be seen by anyone from the outside world. We are cut off until further notice. Questions?"

"Where is 'here'?" asked Harry. Unconsciously, Tate smiled, her fond memories getting the better of her.

"Here is the Wyoming residence of Special Team Halide. Yah, I know that sounds stupid," she added, seeing the dubious expressions, "But that was our nickname...my team's nickname. I'll get to them in a bit."

"How long have you known about this," asked Ron.

"My whole life, really. But, if you want specifics on this situation, I've known we were going to have to come here eventually since I arrived at Hogwarts. So about two and half months give or take." Harry made a small noise in his throat.

"Why didn't you tell us?" Hermione tried to keep the urgency out of her voice.

"You wouldn't have believed me."

"What do you mean you've known your whole life?" Ron looked at her, ridiculously confused, and Harry and Hermione mirrored his emotions. Tate sighed softly, and passed a hand over her eyes.

"I've never had to answer that question before, so bear with me. I don't know if I'll answer it right." She concentrated hard on the floor, biting her lip. For a few moments she was silent. Just as Hermione was about to comfort her, her head came up and she began speaking.

"A little before I turned six, a man came to our home. He explained to my parents that I was not a normal kid, kinda like when y'all got your letters for school. He told them that, by magical decree, I was to become his ward and trainee. I had been born for a purpose, and nothing they could do or say would change that." She stopped, snorted, and seemed unwilling to continue.

"This sounds so stupid... Anyways, I got pulled out of school and went into training with Niels. Even though I was six, because I'm a telepath I picked things up very quickly. He had a few other wards, four of them. One of them was a telepath, but the others simply showed great potential for magical warfare. I worked with the other four students from the time I was six until last Fall, when I returned to muggle school. The four other guys and me, well, we were Special Team Halide."

"What sort of training are you talking about," asked Harry.

"Warfare."

"Yah, I've heard that part before. But why would they train you in that," he asked.

Tate clasped her hands together. "Because of psychic demonic warfare. My whole life, I've been trained to combat that threat."

Hermione was stunned. "You've trained your whole life for a magical warfare? I can't imagine the sort of childhood you had." She trailed off uncertainly, knowing she had just been rude, but lacking the strength to care.

Tate laughed hollowly. "You learn to give up certain things when you've got no other choice. I've never been in any position to reject my life. You are what you are. Granted my childhood was...fucked up, to say the least. I spent half of my life here, and alternately in Cambodia and desert Utah and Nevada, and most of that was as an older boy. I was 'Douglas Chalker' for about seven years. That'll do wonders to the mindset of a little girl." She shook her head laughing.

"I spent ten years around the same six people, so every time I went home and had to socialize with anyone outside my family, I freaked out. That's why they shipped my ass back to muggle school - to teach me how to deal with people. It didn't go very well, obviously..." Ron giggled, and Tate managed a tightlipped smile. Hermione let out a sigh of relief - at least she was lightening up about the whole incident. This small gesture prompted a volley of questions to be asked, mostly from Harry. He was keen on knowing exactly what she had to offer from her years of strange schooling.

"We trained in stages, mainly. A month of piloting, a month of tactical operations, a month of weapons, and so on."

"Weapons?" asked Ron, "What kind of training would weapons entail - all you need is a wand."

Tate gave him a funny look. "Believe it or not, a gun can kill a wizard. You're still human. My focus was more on muggle tactics, actually. They're a bit more strategic and methodical, since they've got so many killing options, whereas y'all only use Avada Kedavra."

"Trust me, that's enough," murmured Harry, turning his eyes toward the floor, images of Cedric replaying through his mind. Hermione patted his back comfortingly.

"To be blunt, pyrokinetics are trained to be weapons. It fulfills the dichotomy necessary for a fight waged against a psychic evil. Like I said before, on one end, you've got a machine, programmed for fighting. One half is the intensely trained. The one who has gone through life being bred for a certain purpose. Every minute of every day since the appearance of his or her powers goes toward the instruction of combat. The other half is a pure form, a bundle of raw, pure energy that has never been manipulated or even fully used. One who has had no training, no direction, only the instruction of their heart and soul. You, Hermione." Hermione said nothing, still lost in the shock of recent events.

"Now, when I said I did not exist, I meant that...in a whacked out way...What's my name Hermione?"

"Summere Kalliope Natalya Tatum Elissa Lasyrenn Mithra Blackeberry," she recited, without hesitation and without fervor.

Tate nodded, grinning. "Did Dumbledore show you the list of telepaths?"

Hermione looked up quickly. "Yes he did, but you were not on it. No...your name must've come after my name...There was a Summerre on the list, but it wasn't you...the last name was all wrong...I couldn't pronounce it...there was no grammatical sense in it whatsoever, no one could've properly pronounced it. Probably gobbledeegook or some other."

"Nope, that was me. My birthday is June 11th, yours is September 19th, and the list is chronological." Hermione stared at her, dumbfounded. "It's a bit complicated, the charms on my name...there's more than a few of them, each name having about three charms each..."

"But you can't charm the surname of a person," Harry pointed out, "Professor Flitwick said as much last year." Tate nodded to him.

"I know. Blackeberry is not my surname. It's another middle name."

That did it. She might as well have said her last name was Riddle. Tate was becoming less and less recognizable by the minute. No one could comment, not even Hermione. The confusion and shock was a bit overwhelming.

"I said it was complicated," Tate said quietly. "My Uncle is a wizard...he completed most of the name charms when I was born, since my parents are muggles. However, Niels altered my name when I became his ward. He dropped my surname completely, and put a spell on my middle names. Therefore, my surname became an amalgam of my middle names. Make sense?"

There was no answer.

"You are aware that if a witch or wizard is born to a muggle family, two birth certificates will exist for that person?" Hermione nodded, clearly the only one aware of such a fact. Wizarding families were not entered into muggle systems - they did not exist to the muggle world.

"Right. Magical birth certificates, for lack of a better term, are issued to said muggle born wizards upon emergence of powers. My muggle birth certificate is recorded as Summere Chalker. My magical birth certificate is recorded with the charmed last name. It'll look different and completely unpronounceable to anyone who reads it."

"There's a spell that can manipulate human reasoning?" asked Harry.

"There's all kinds. All banned, of course, and you'll never find most of the books that document them. They've all been locked away. The censors touch everything these days, you know," answered Hermione.

"Won't that be a bit of a tip-off?" interjected Ron. "I mean, it's pretty uncommon...won't someone pick up on that?"

"Normally, yes," said Tate, "However, the only place my name has ever been recorded in the Wizarding World is on the list of known living telepaths. I was never enrolled at Hogwarts. I completed class assignments and turned in permission slips under the name Blackeberry, but my grades were never recorded and the documents were always destroyed immediately. My name does not exist anywhere, except on that one list. And for the record, I was never sorted."

"WHAT?" The room went up in a collective roar, amidst shouts of "How is that possible?" and "Who are you?" and the like. She held up a hand.

"I was never sorted because it went without question that I would need to be in very close contact with Hermione. Niels and Dumbledore and myself felt it would be too risky, were I to be placed in a different house."

It made sense...in a very manipulative way, it made perfect sense.

"There's no point in getting pissed off. I misled you, terribly, for which I am very sorry. I didn't ask for any of this, and neither did you. But this is how it is. I'm very aware that you guys will feel like you don't know me at all, and to be perfectly honest, that's definitely true, in many ways. But in others, it's not at all. I mean only to help you. I _want_ to be your friend."

Harry's hands were clenched so tightly his knuckles had turned white. Ron could only stare at the floor, still shocked at the completely unexpected revelations.

"I don't expect this to be an overnight friendship," Tate said quickly, realizing their attentions were all but gone. "This is going to be a working relationship, between all of us, for the next several months. That said, I think its time we opened this bottle this bottle of tequila." Hands reached for shot glasses, clamoring for the sweet nectar that would drown their troubles.

----------

Hermione woke to the screaming wind outside her window. She rubbed her eyes, and looked to the window, slightly hoping that she was hallucinating.

She was not. The snow was falling so thickly, that it seemed a thick white sheet of stardust was continually pounding against the rickety, fragile window that creaked forebodingly in its frame. The clock read five AM. Hermione groaned and turned on her side, burying her head under a pillow.

Too soon, it became clear to her that she needed to get up and use the restroom. Her head was slightly muddled and achy from the evenings alcohol consumption. Tate was right -- they did need the calming shots following their conversation. Tate...

Hermione looked to the twin bed against the wall. It was empty, neatly made as though no one had ever been there, though Tate had gone to sleep in it the previous evening. Sighing, Hermione swung her feet over her bed, grimacing against the freezing cold floors assault.

"Jesus Christ," muttered Hermione, through chattering teeth. "A fecking magic house with no heat? We're going to die." She trotted as fast as possible toward the bathroom, went about her business and brushed her teeth. Then she flew back through the hall, kicked open the door that had blown shut, and shot under the covers of her bed.

There really is nothing quite like flinging yourself into a warm cocoon of fluffy blankets after braving the harsh elements of a trek to the bathroom in a drafty, badly insulated house at five AM in the morning. And Hermione planned to take all the pleasure in it possible. She squirmed around her in bed, burrowing into the impossible soft and springy mattress. There had to be magic in the mattress, she decided -- normal mattresses, even feather beds, weren't this soft. It seemed to mold to her body, no matter which way position she twisted herself into. She found her desired level of comfort, and growled softly in her throat -- and was startled to hear laughter. She peeked from under the covers to see Harry silhouetted in the doorway. Or at least, it looked and sounded like Harry.

"Got room for two?" Hermione grinned, and lifted the covers. Harry quickly slipped between them. He wrapped his arms around Hermione and she gasped at his frigid limbs.

"Did you just jump in a bloody lake," she asked in a shrill voice as she tried to escape his icy grasp. He laughed and held her tighter and she squealed and struggled against him. In no time at all, however, his body warmed to a bearable temperature, and Hermione stopped squirming and snuggled up against him. The crown of her head fit perfectly beneath his chin, and he lightly stroked her hair. Anyways, it fit perfectly until he started talking.

"How did you sleep?"

"As well as expected," she responded, nuzzling against his bare chest. In lieu of recent events, she wasn't surprised to find tension in his muscles. Softly, she began to rub little circles over his collarbones and shoulders.

"What are you thinking?" she whispered.

"Do you really need to ask that question as you're tracin' little circles on my neck? Why don't you just dance naked in front of me?"

Hermione giggled and shook her head. "Too cold."

Harry laughed, and brushed his fingers across the sensitive spot between her shoulder blades, drawing a shiver and sigh. She ceased with the rubbing of circles.

"Now, what are you thinking?"

Harry sighed, and the veins in his neck tensed for a moment.

"I take it you'd like me to answer that seriously?"

"If you like," Hermione whispered dreamily, burying her face in his neck and breathing deeply.

A gesture such as this, from any typical girl, would have meant 'no you stupid sod, snog me senseless'. However, this being from Hermione, Harry knew she meant business. There would be no snogging until Hermione'd had her desired moment of Zen communication.

"I hate it here. I hate everything about this place, right down to the dirty pictures covering the wall next to my bed. I hate that its freezing all the time - it's like this house absorbs the cold. The floors, the walls, the doorknobs, _everything_ is like ice."

"Is it much worse in the attic?"

"Oh yes it is. The wind howls like wolves, and the house moves with it. Ron moans in his sleep. It's like living with the Weasley family ghoul on a houseboat. Did I mention the cold?" Hermione smiled. "I have to trust someone I barely know."

"We have no choice, Harry," she replied slowly.

"No. No we do not."

She shifted in his arms, and turned her eyes to his. They were wide and imploring. It nearly broke his heart to look into them, and he felt the need to squeeze her tighter, to remind himself that she was still there.

"Do you wish you hadn't come?"

Harry gaped at her. She caught her lower lip between her teeth as she watched his face.

"No." She said nothing, merely buried her face in his chest. It said a lot that he'd followed her to this place. It said everything. She planted a kiss in the hollow of his throat.

"Tell me about the dirty pictures on your ceiling," she teased.

Harry grimaced, and turned his face into the pillow, moaning. Hermione laughed.

"Well, there's one with this three women, and they're all..." She shut him up in the most effective way possible.

_10:45 AM_

Hours later, asleep, Hermione's head lay on Harry's chest. He had one arm curled protectively around her, the other folded under his head. A tall red-headed figure resisted an urge to either vomit or laugh uproariously at the veritable picture of content.

"Well, isn't this romantic," quipped Ron, as he launched a rolled pair of socks at Harry's head. They nailed him right between the eyes. There was a bout a swear exchanging before Harry and Hermione actually managed to roust themselves and face the new morning.

Hermione found a note on the downstairs coffee table.

_Will be back at sundown. Do not leave house, for any reason. Cellar door in kitchen._

_Tate_

No one bothered asking where she'd gone. As far as Ron and Harry were concerned, only highly disturbed humans awoke before five AM. Hermione bristled in annoyance, but chose not to comment on their rudeness. She rose at five AM every single weekday - she allowed herself a considerable seven AM on weekends. She glared at the two briefly, before stomping her way into the kitchen.

Shortly after they ate (Hermione had asked whether they wanted soup...or soup), Hermione decided they should acquaint themselves to the house. It seemed only natural - after all, there was not a bloody alternative. They were confined to the house.

Harry balked at this, but Hermione concluded that if Tate had postulated that they not leave, 'for any reason', then that's what they would do. She had a hankering that the safety charms and wards were strongest in the general vicinity of the house, not much further beyond it.

The outside was hostile, unfamiliar territory, and she had no intention of stepping foot on it one moment before she had to.

Therefore, at Hermione's suggestion (Ron felt it was more of a demand), the three went about the house, separately of course, and got a feel for their new surroundings.

Hermione went to the attic first. There was a disgustingly narrow, rickety staircase, splintery to the touch. Irritated, Hermione smoothed away the scratchy banister with a _Levo _charm. Then she reached the fourth step and knocked her head soundly on the ceiling. It had been poorly designed - the stairwell didn't open up into the next room until the sixth step, causing anyone over five feet tall great pain. Between clenched teeth, she could only imagine what sort of colorful things Ron had said when he discovered the overtly low ceiling. With his ridiculous height, he probably knocked his own head on the first step. Hermione giggled, and rubbed the crown of her head, willing the ache away. The stairwell came up right in the middle of to space, extending about ten feet in either direction. There were three tiny windows, all of them barred. It was unnerving.

Two beds flanked either side of the stairwell. Another two were pushed against the opposite walls. A fifth bed was lofted about seven feet up from the floor, and Hermione surmised that bed had once belonged to Tate. It seemed only natural. Constant, close living space with boys, usually in an adopted male image, she needed at least some separation. Any available surface near the beds was covered in pictures. Pictures of all sorts, each compilation in its own way unique. One such collection, the bed against the far left window, was devoted almost entirely to landscapes. Endless landscapes, obviously taken with a muggle camera by an amateur photographer - most likely the bed inhabitant. The bed against the far right window was surrounded by pornographic images - not a single photograph of family (because that would be gross) or clothed people anywhere.

Hermione climbed the shaky ladder to the lofted bed. There was barely enough space for the bed, which consisted of little more than a mattress on the floor. Almost unconsciously, Hermione marveled at the same magnificent mattress she had slept on. Every bed in the room was equipped with one.

There were only a few pictures over Tate's bed - her family, and a few of her Polyjuice donor and herself. Nothing substantial really. Hermione leapt off the loft, foregoing the ladder. Her feet made a spectacular crashing sound as her shins absorbed the impact of the fall. A tiny, cracked mirror spluttered indignantly.

----------

Ron stood in the doorway of the study, brooding over his search possibilities. A massive pine desk dominated one of the walls, shelves stretching ten feet high commanding the other. A large map hung on the opposite wall. He stepped carefully over to the desk. Even though he was aware they were quite alone in the house, the idea of rifling through someone else's things made him uneasy. But not that uneasy. He was still a curious teenager underneath it all.

He opened random drawers on the desk - surprisingly enough, only one was locked. He seized a bent and twisted piece of silver wire from a piece of paper it had snagged on and set about straightening it. He inserted the silver wire into what appeared to be a tiny lock and began to twist.

It promptly stunned him, and he flew across the room.

----------

Harry prodded around the living room, more moping than exploring. He'd seen everything already. More than anything, he wanted to go outside. Hermione had, of course, forbidden this. By default, he had to listen - otherwise he would have gladly ignored Tate's original demand. As a formally caged child though, Harry naturally longed to open the door and see the outside, even though the snow was still furious, the wind still moaning, and the sky still disagreeably dark. He slumped into a grubby chair and kicked his feet up on the coffee table. His eyes fell upon Tate's hastily scrawled note.

_Cellar door in Kitchen._

"Cellar door, eh?" Harry stood, and made his way to kitchen, purposely scraping the soles of his shows against the ragged floor. A floor length mirror that hung on the wall gave a loud "Hmph". He was beginning to notice that the mirrors in the house were uncharacteristically loud and annoying, often butting their way into private conversations. He'd have to remind himself to remove the mirror from Hermione's room.

Once in the kitchen, he had a hell of a time finding the actual cellar door. He'd covered every inch of every wall, when he was forced to slap himself in the forehead for being thick.

Of course it would be in the floor. Cellars led underground didn't they?

"_Alohamora_." The trapdoor sprang open, and Harry shut his eyes quickly as volumes of dust poured from the opening. He waved his arms furiously, but still managed to swallow a mouthful of dust that had him coughing violently for several minutes. After his coughing fit receded, he removed his glasses and rubbed them on his shirt. He regarded the trap door for a moment. His scar hadn't reacted, and the only feeling he perceived from the trap door was cold air. Scratch that. Glacial air. Cor, he was going to freeze his arse off. Before his conscience could talk him out of it, Harry dropped through the trapdoor opening.

And landed on stairs. And swore. _Shan't be telling Ron about that one_, he decided. His redheaded friend would laugh for ages.

"_Lumos_." He squinted for a moment, eyes adjusting to the surroundings. His mouth dropped in total awe.

Harry gazed around the dimly lit surroundings, his senses buzzed. He couldn't identify precisely what he was feeling, but it was a combination of terror, excitement, confusion, general awe. It was...thrilling, to say the least.

He was in what could only be described as an arsenal. The space was huge, with several corridors. He was surrounded by endless racks of muggle guns. Small guns, big guns, _massive_ guns. Things he had only seen on television before, really. Bobby firearms didn't count so much, not in comparison to where he was now. In a state of shock, he entered the first corridor and found it stocked with cans of non-perishable food and bottled water. Thankfully, he could now cross starvation off his list of fears.

Down another corridor, he found dozens upon dozens of glass bottles lining the walls. Each row bore a different kind of alcohol. At least two dozen cases of beer was stacked at the dead end, and twice as many cartons of cigarettes. He found himself laughing out loud. Alcohol, tobacco, and firearms. Just like an American arsenal to pair something so deadly with the last peddled legal drugs in the world.

Much later that day, when everyone had finished their respective exploring, the three had supper together - soup again. It was nearing eight in the evening when Harry finally showed them the arsenal. As he suspected, they were shocked...and more than a little nervous.

"Ron!" Hermione glared at him in the dim lighting, "You leave all that alone!"

Ron smiled guiltily at her, but chose to ignore her reprimand and continue choosing a bottle of spirits.

Harry touched her arm lightly. "Honestly Hermione, she wouldn't have told us how to get in here if she didn't want us to touch anything."

"Still," Hermione pressed, "I'd feel better if you asked her first - this being her home after all."

At that moment, above their heads, a door was flung open and slammed, followed by the mechanical noises of locks being activated. Footsteps traced their way toward and then up the stairs. It wasn't deafening - but much louder than Hermione expected to hear. Then again, it sounded as though whoever it was had been dragging their feet.

"Go find out where the hell she was all day," called Ron over his shoulder. He hadn't taken his eyes off of the rack he was currently observing. Without responding, Hermione spun on her heel and took off toward her bedroom. However, there was no one in there, so she went to the attic.

"Tate? Was that you?" No answer. However, Hermione sensed her presence, and quickly climbed the ladder to the lofted bed. Sure enough, Tate was there. Hermione pulled her mouth in a tight, motherly line at the sight.

Tate lay on the covers, fully clothed. She was faced away from Hermione. Her hair was braided tightly, and wound around her head, but it was tangled around the edges and coming loose. Grunting slightly, Tate turned over to face her new housemate. Hermione grimaced at the dirt caked on Tate's face.

"Get up, you can't sleep like that." Tate opened one eye.

"Can too."

"You're all dirty!" Hermione looked over her muddy clothes. Her fingernails were practically black. "You'll ruin your bed!"

"Nah...too tired to move - we'll talk tomorrow." She closed her eye and Hermione gave up after a few minutes.

However, they did not talk the next day, nor the day after. Tate would be gone before anyone woke up, only to return well after dark and go straight to sleep. It would be a full three days of the same routine - the same confusion, boredom, and endless soup - before Ron took matters into his own hands.

----------

He waited on the stairs of the attic all night. It would be four thirty AM before Tate finally woke.

_Dammit, LATE! Stupid!_ She quickly berated herself, and rose stealthily out of bed. She crept into the closet and changed. Then she made her way out into the hall, and prepared to sneak down the stairs when an arm snaked across her throat.

"Reveal thy name," said a clearly forced, raspy voice. Tate groaned in annoyance.

"Get off, Ron! Unless you want soup again tonight, you'll let me go!"

"I'll come with, and keep you company. What the hell are you wearing?"

"Its called camo. I'm going hunting today. If you want to come, you'll need to put on something from the cupboard in there." Tate gestured to a hall closet. Ron looked unconvinced.

"You can hunt in weather like this?"

"Sure. It's not so bad out today." She scampered down the stairs. Ron shook his head and dove into the closet, quickly putting on the first thing he could find.

Fifteen minutes later, he was regretting his rash decision to go hunting with Tate. The storm had blown itself out the day before, but the climate was still hostile. Even though he and Tate had enchanted their heavy clothes with waterproofing and warming charms, the cold still bit through and numbed his bones. He trudged along next to her, careful to walk on her left side. In her right hand, she gripped a very large rifle, which she had earlier proclaimed to be a Ruger 44 Carbine. Whatever the hell that was.

"Nearly there now," she said to Ron.

"WHAT?"

"YOU'RE A FUCKING COW!" Ron threw his hands over his heart in mock sorrow, and pitched backward into the snow. She laughed down at him, seized his arm, and yanked him back up. They continued to struggle through the now shin deep snow, finally stopping in front of a large gathering of rocks. Tate rustled around in her rucksack and retrieved something.

"This," she said, waving the long black contraption around, "is an SKB side-by-side 20 gauge. You'll need to get used to using guns around here - eventually we'll be using them more often then wands." Ron stared at her blankly, and she smiled slightly at his confusion. "I'm going to take the safety off. That means you will be able to fire a shot. Using this," she pointed to the trigger.

"Hold the gun like this." She demonstrated the proper stance, with the butt of the gun securely against her shoulder. "And you just squeeze the trigger to shoot." Ron was ghost white at this point, and staring at her as though she had just told him to eat the rifle. She made to hand it to him, and he shrank away. She shoved the rifle into his hands and grabbed the collar of his jacket, forcing his face closer to hers.

"If I come out of there running, you take that thing and shoot at whatever is after me." Ron began to protest fiercely, but she shook him a bit.

"Ron, if I'm in danger, you are going to have to protect me. If you're too afraid to use the gun, you can try your wand, but it may not work. I need your help here. But DO NOT shoot me!"

Tate mentally flogged herself. She despised pulling the 'female in need of protection' card, and only used it as a last resort. It worked. Looking into her adamant eyes, Ron agreed, and took a spot right above the opening in the rocks as Tate disappeared through.

----------

Back at the house, Harry was awake. He had heard Tate and Ron leave moments earlier. Instead of returning to sleep, he got up and pulled a sweatshirt over his head. He immediately descended the stairs, towards the study. Ron had alerted him of the magically locked desk the day before. Ron's vast attempts to unlock the annoying drawer had been completely fruitless, often ending with a well directed stunning spell that sent him flying across the room. Harry regarded the drawer carefully. He ran his hands over the cool surface.

"_Alohamora_." Nothing happened. "_Pateo._" Still nothing. He continued, trying every spell that came to mind, and yielding no results. Sighing, he glared furiously at the locked desk.

"My name is Harry Potter. I mean no harm. Please open."

"Well, that's comforting, dear," came a pleasant voice that yawned loudly. Harry jumped slightly, before spying the mirror that hung over the desk.

"Excuse me," he said politely, getting to his feet, "But I was wondering if you could tell me how to open that drawer."

The mirror tittered slightly. "My dear boy, you are much smarter than your red-haired companion. He must've gotten himself stunned a good twelve times. And to think! No one asks the mirror for help! The mirror who sees everything!" Harry gritted his teeth into a smile, his patience wearing slightly thin.

"If I were you," giggled the mirror, "I'd try the books." Harry wrinkled his brow. Try the books? He glanced at the bookshelf in the corner, then looked back at the mirror in confusion.

"Try the special one, dear," it coaxed, "Go on." Harry shrugged, and faced the bookshelf. Goddamned mirror was like a centaur, speaking in rhymes and what not. He quickly skimmed the bookshelf, noticing only the titles that jumped out at him. _The Secret Language of Birthdays_. _Murder by Potions and How to Avoid It. Is Your Spouse Trying to Kill You? Mantrapping. Drive to Survive_. This was all very annoying to Harry, until his eyes fell upon a very tiny book with no title on its spine. It was so small, it might've been nicked from a little girl's doll set. Curiously, he picked it up and turned it over. The cover read _Special Forces Handbook; Headquarters, Department of Army_. There was a slight grating noise, and he turned around in time to see the drawer spring open, as the mirror cheered him on.

----------

After about five minutes, Ron began to get nervous. After half an hour, he was damn near terrified. What if there were trolls in there or something? A blasted metal contraption like the one he held couldn't do any damage against a troll! He waited two more minutes, and then resolved to go in after her. He had merely raised himself to his feet and was preparing to climb down the rocks and enter the opening, when a massive booming echo reverberated off the cave walls and escaped the small enclosure with an explosive snarl. Moments later, Tate came staggering out. She dragged a massive elk behind her.

"Weightless charm," she explained, and Ron stared in complete shock. The elk was dead, and she had killed it. He could see bright red blood against the snow. Brilliant red against pure white. He began to feel sick. Tate grabbed his shoulder and shook him.

"Ron! Ron, come off it! He was starving, and if I didn't kill him, he would have suffered terribly." Ron continued to gaze down at the magnificent animal. Tate sighed, drew back her arm, and slapped him across the face.

Ron, not expecting the blow, saw stars. He shook his head, to clear it, and saw that Tate was already gone, twenty feet or so ahead of him, the gigantic dead elk floating next to her. He charged after them, going as fast as he could through the snow.

She disappeared into a tiny shed near the house. He tried to follow her, but the door was locked.

"Go back to the house, Ron!" she shouted through the door, "You don't want to see this, I promise!" Ron continued to pound on the door.

"Go away!" she shouted again. This only strengthened his resolve. He threw his shoulder against the door. He backed up, prepared to do it again, when the door flew open. Tate stood there, in a thin white camisole and her camo pants, eyes blazing. Her hands were covered in bright red blood. Unfortunately, for both of them, Ron had pitched forward to bash the door again. He hit Tate full force in the chest, knocking both of them over. She landed hard on her back, he came down on top of her. The air was knocked out of both of them, and Tate's eyes unfocused. Ron drew up, looked at her, and shook her gently. She gasped for air, looked at him in fury, and began to struggle away. Ron grinned, and pinned her on the ground. She twisted her head around, and glared at him.

"Not as strong as you think, are you?" Ron smirked at her inability to get away. "You are in quite a compromising position, my dear." Tate smiled, and brought a hand of hers toward his face. He blanched and rolled off of her, shrinking away from her blood drenched hand.

"Hell's fire, Tate," he squeaked, "Get away with that mess!" She grinned sarcastically, and turned back to her work. She picked up an enormous hunting knife, and proceeded to continue cleaning the elk. The smell of blood filled the tiny shack, and Ron felt his stomach heave. The coppery stuff was everywhere, and his head began to spin.

Without turning around, Tate said, "If you've got to throw up, there's a bucket in the corner." Ron bolted for it, and was violently ill for what seemed like hours. His world spun, and he laid on the dirty ground next to the bucket, curling his knees to his chest, surrendering to the world of dreams...

----------

Harry approached the drawer carefully. There were dividers in it, and lots of folders. It didn't appear to be threatening. He read the labels quickly: _Reports_, _Expenses_, _News_, _Updates_, _Important Stuff_, _Special Team Halide_, _Personals_, _Miscellaneous_. Harry, having recalled Tate mention Special Team Halide before, seized that section and drew it out. He opened it quickly, and five bound folders spilled out on the ground. They were all gray, and bound with a leather tie. Each had a label on the front, bearing a name, date of birth and, in one case, date of death. Curiously, he picked up that particular folder and read the label aloud.

"Cody C. Chalker. Born July twelfth, 1974. Died October first, 1995."

"Ahh, Cody," whispered the mirror, "What a wonderful boy he was." Harry ignored the mirror, and scanned the other folders. He quickly found what he was looking for, and seized a folder entitled "Summerre K. N. T. E. L. M. B. Chalker". He opened it and found himself staring at two pictures. In one, a younger Tate smiled soberly at him against a blue background. In the other, a well built boy dressed in military fatigues regarded him gravely. He flipped the page, and found a terse biography.

**NAME:** Summere Kalliope Natalya Tatum Elissa Lasyrenn Mithra Blackeberry Chalker.

**DOB: **06/11/1980

**SEX:** Female

**RANK: **Pyrokinetic, Telepath, Telekinetic

**STATUS: **Legally Deceased - time of death: 1:47 AM, 12/06/1996.

**MAJOR HEALTH PROBLEMS: **None

**AGE AT TIME OF ENROLLMENT: **Six years, two months, seven days, nine hours, twelve seconds.

**MAGICAL EDUCATION: **All levels of Dark Arts, Potions, Transfiguration, Charms completed. No experience in following areas: Arithmancy, Divination, Runic Studies.

**MUGGLE EDUCATION: **College Level Physics, Chemistry, Biology, Mathematics, Mechanical Engineering completed. High School Level English, History, Theology completed.

**LANGUAGES: **Subject has unprecedented affinity for languages. At this time (9/25/96) subject fluent in seventy three human languages, none of which author (Boltzmann) is in any mood to write out. Maybe next time.

**SPECIAL SKILLS: **Magical Combat Training. Magical Protection Techniques. Land, Sea, Arctic, Aerial Survival Techniques. Basic EMS Training. Advanced Maritime. Combat SCUBA. Combat Skydiving Tactics. Electronic Combat Tactics. Scouting and Dynamic Entry. Night Moves and Camouflage Uses. Hostage/Barricade Deployment and Entry Decision. Covert Deployment. Negotiations Class. Advanced Lockpicking and Vehicular Entry. Breaching Tools Assessment. Advanced Surveillance Techniques. Officer Down and Victim Rescue. Techniques of Distraction. Dignitary Protection. Concealment. Advanced Handgun, Shotgun, Rifle, Carbine, and Urban Sport Training. Situation Tactics. Sniper Training (10 years). Superior Weapons Knowledge. Knife Combat Training. Hand to hand combat training. Martial Arts. Land, Sea, Aerial Warfare. Navigation Techniques. Piloting Lessons (10 years). Automobile Skills (4 years).

**NOTES: **From June eleventh, 1989 to October first, 1995, subject spent majority of time under influence of Polyjuice Potion, simulating appearance of Cody Chalker, subject's cousin by blood. Anticipated psychological deviations (i.e. Gender Identity Disorder) as result of said simulation likely unfounded, never demonstrated. Note: Fire Psychiatrist. Subject displays very versatile adaptability when in company of teammates. Subject has exhibited rather extreme agoraphobia on certain occasions - notably, close contact with unknown people. Repeated attempts to correct affliction have failed. Subject projected to "outgrow" problem with age and maturity.

He flipped the page, delving further into what was most likely the only written proof that Tate had every existed. When he'd finished, he picked up Cody Chalker's file. And then Bryan T. Matheson's. Then Sergey A. Chernyshev's. And so on, concluding with Robert J. Soto, until he was familiar with every person that had comprised the apparently defunct Special Team Halide.

----------

Ron jerked awake, inhaling a mouthful of choking dust. He spluttered and coughed, wiping his mouth with the rough sleeve of his camo jumpsuit. He turned on his back, looking at the ceiling. The elk had been stripped of its hide and entrails, and was now strung up by its legs. Tate sloshed a bucket of water onto the floor, sending the blood into the tiny sluice that ran out of the shed. She cocked her head toward Ron.

"Feeling better?" Ron groaned.

"When you take off that camisole and clean up a bit, I will. You're fuckin' terrifying right now." Tate laughed, and concurred. Her white top was splattered with volumes of blood. Blood flecked her face, her thighs, and her arms. It covered her hands.

"Don't wince when I scream," came her disconnected voice as she strode over to a small water pump. Drawing a deep breath, she yanked the chain on it, and water poured over her.

If the shack were made of glass, it would have shattered. The water must have been absolutely freezing. She screamed as though in pain, but scrubbed furiously at her arms and legs, face and hair. After perhaps fifty seconds of the intense scrubbing session, she turned to water off and collapsed to the ground, shivering uncontrollably, yet laughing maniacally. Ron crawled over to her, and took her into his arms, rubbing her shoulders to warm her up. Her skin and lips were tinged blue. She grinned.

"Better, is this?" She chattered. Ron laughed and gathered her up.

"Brace yourself," he said, and threw open the shack door, braving the elements.

----------

Hermione jerked awake as the downstairs front door was loudly kicked open, and what sounded like two people hit the floor. Hermione rolled out of bed, and went to the top of the staircase. Ron and Tate were lying in a heap on the floor, snow haloed out around them, giggling. Hermione tutted in annoyance, and descended the stairs when she noticed Tate's bluish skin and wet clothes.

"You are going to catch your death," she nagged, yanking Tate up by the arm and wrapping her in a blanket. Ron continued to laugh.

"And just what were you two doing out in _this_?" Hermione gestured out the window. Although it was nearly eight in the morning, the sky was still almost totally black, and the window howled terribly. It seemed the storm was beginning to pick back up.

"Hunting," grunted Tate, through chattering teeth. Hermione shook her head.

"You're barking mad, you know that right?" Tate laughed and stuck her tongue out, scampering up the stairs. Ron sighed in fatigue and rolled onto his back. Hermione smiled, and "accidentally" kicked him in the ribs as she passed on her way to the kitchen.

Once in the attic, Tate discarded her wet clothes and dug into the old wardrobe. She managed to procure a pair of horribly weather-beaten black jeans and a ripped t-shirt, and dressed quickly. When she ran back down the stairs, she headed straight for the study.

Harry looked up at the doorway, alerted by the impending footsteps. As he expected, Tate opened the door and came in.

"Find anything interesting," she asked lightly, smiling carefully. Harry nodded, and she plopped on the floor beside him. He looked away from Robert J. Soto's file, and regarded her appraisingly. He couldn't really think of much to say. The files he had been reading unnerved him greatly, shot through with a sliver of guilt, and he was unsure how to approach any topic of conversation alluding to them.

"Robert was...uh...quite a character." He winced, even as he said the words. Tate grinned, mindful of his discomfort.

"He definitely is," she agreed. "All of 'em, Sergei, Bryan, Robert, they're all great people. They're all in Alaska now - some new arctic training course, I think. How long have you been reading?"

"About two hours now," Harry admitted, a slight tinge of guilt laced in his words.

"And what can you tell me about Sergei?" Harry blinked at her.

"What? Why? Wouldn't you know him better than I would?"

"Of course I do. But I'd like to see how much you can remember about him. I've got a theory on you, and I'd like to test it, so if you'd just -"

"Sergei is Russian. He's twenty one, five foot ten, black hair and blue eyes. He can hold his breath underwater for nearly fifteen minutes."

"OK. Everyone else?"

"Bryan is a telepath, twenty one, and five foot seven, which makes him the shortest guy in the group. Robert is Spanish, twenty two, five foot eleven, and diabetic. He's a big daredevil, or so I gathered." Tate grinned.

"Huge daredevil. Real popular with the ladies, I'll tell you that much."

"Oh? Was that on shore leave?" Tate laughed heartily, and cuffed him on the shoulder. "Cody was your cousin. He died when he was twenty one. Before his death, he patented several prototype weapons. You are legally dead, so to speak, and a complete pain in my arse." She made a face at him. "Every person completed the same levels of academics and military education, except for Robert who got extra schooling in Divination because he is a suspected Seer. Umm...I think that's about it."

"That's about what?" Tate and Harry looked up. Hermione stood in the doorway, Ron's head peering in behind her.

"Very good timing, Hermione," quipped Tate, "Come in, sit down." Hermione crossed the room and sat next to Harry. Ron chose a spot on Harry's other side.

"Oh, finally got it open, did you," Ron asked Harry excitedly, upon seeing the folders and open drawer. Harry grinned and nodded.

"Clarise told you, I'll bet. She's a loudmouth." The mirror snorted, and made a raspberry like noise. Tate grinned, stood up, and walked over to the left wall, where the large map was situated. "This is us," she said, pointed to a brown rectangle in the center of the map marked 'house'. "This," she traced her way toward a tiny black square nestled among green paint four inches away, "Is where I've been the past few days. I'm cleaning up and repairing some of the training grounds we have around here, as no one has kept it up in the past few months. It hasn't fallen into disrepair by any means, but it needs a little polishing. I expect to finish that today. So while I'm gone, you guys have free reign to go through that desk and read whatever you like. And tomorrow, you'll get to see the Playground. Deal?"

"Deal," came the collective reply. And she was gone.

----------

An ocean away, disrepair was exactly the state Hogwarts was in. It had been four days since the Astronomy Tower attack, and there were still no leads. The school had been closed until further notice. All students had been sent home, while the faculty remained to assess and repair the damage, in conjunction with a specialized team of wizards. This had originally presented a small conflict of housing issues - however, now, according to some, it presented a much larger one.

Severus Snape, as a Hogwarts Professor, had volunteered to stay on at Hogwarts, and assist with the efforts. Draco Malfoy, being only sixteen and a student, could not stay on at Hogwarts, even if he were to remain out of the way. And Dumbledore, that hardy old fool...Dumbledore had sent him to live with a temporary "foster" family, so to speak. Draco was sent to stay with the Weasleys.

Angrily, he clenched his hands into fists as he stared at the backyard of the Burrow. He'd been here two days, and the Twins had already slipped him a Ton-Tongue Toffee, two Canary Creams (one had been hidden under his pancakes), and hexed his favorite pair of silken boxers to shriek "SISSY!" every hour on the hour. It was pure and untempered Hell, and the only thing missing was Ron Weasley and Pansy Parkinson. Draco exhaled deeply, almost in relief. _Thank God for some small favors._

Ginny watched him curiously from Ron's bedroom window. She'd been spending more and more time in Ron's room, what with his current absence. Her parents knew where he was, though they kept it well hidden from Ginny and her brothers. She placated herself with the knowledge that, if Dumbledore and her parents knew where he was and her mother was not in a state of panic, then he must be all right. Obviously, he'd be with Harry and Hermione - but where they had gotten off to was a mystery. She shook her head to clear her thoughts. When she returned her gaze to the back porch, she'd found Draco had gone. Sighing softly, she looked at the moon, which was haloed in many rings of silver haze. The sign of severe blasts to come. She shivered slightly, and pulled the sleeves of her sweater up over her hands. Severe blasts could indicate many things, from high winds to massive storms. She bit her lip, and prayed silently that Ron was somewhere warm and shielding.

But a crash from downstairs suddenly commanded her attention.

She bolted out of Ron's room, swiftly padding down the stairs in her bare feet. There was shouting, and a sharp crack. In her haste to reach the melee, she skidded on the bottom step and went careening into the kitchen door.

Fred and George were rolling on the floor, pounding against it with their fists, barely able to breathe. It was a moment of sheer terror before Ginny realized they were laughing.

"What's all this then?" she demanded, as their laughter only grew. Fred managed to detach an arm from around his middle and point at the kitchen table.

A large red owl was perched atop a chair, ruffling its feathers in fury and hooting indignantly. It wore Percy's oversized, horn-rimmed glasses. And it looked extremely pissed off.

Ginny tried valiantly to suppress her own laughter and failed dismally. It was only when Molly Weasley came sprinting down the stairs that anything resembling calm returned.

"What happened here!" she roared fearsomely. Ginny quelled her laughter and pointed toward the barn-red owl. Percy was busy dive-bombing George, which only fueled the twins glee.

"Percy," gasped Fred between guffaws, "was -ha!--giving Malfoy a hard time about - gasp - the importance of proper containers for poisonous potions -ha!--just like Percy, you know. Malfoy told him to stuff it and Perce made a crack about his family, and so Malfoy -HA!--turned him into _that_!" George swatted at Percy, who had snared a thread of his sweater. Percy quickly flew off under the wilting glare of Mrs. Weasley. George's sweater quickly began to unravel, and he leapt up to follow the thread, still howling with laughter.

"Well, I hope Percy is duly ashamed with his behavior! None of you, I repeat, NONE of you are to ever discuss Draco's past, and you are never to use it against him! I needn't remind you why he is staying with us in the first place! He doesn't need your jokes, he needs _friends_. Act your age or you will sorely regret it." Molly Weasley was positively steaming in anger. She spun on one heel to chase after Percy. A single, terrified squawk from the living room suggested she'd found him. Ginny quickly went out the kitchen door to find Draco.

She didn't need to look far.

Draco had seated himself on the picnic table, looking out at the pond. He heard the crunching snow but didn't look up until Ginny had climbed atop the table and seated herself next to him.

"You've made two friends for life now, you know," she said softly. Draco snorted.

"Your brothers hate me," he replied, and edge to his voice, "And there's no sense in fooling yourself otherwise." She bristled slightly at his tone.

"Honestly Draco, have some faith. If you can see the good side, surely they can. Besides, Fred and George never thought to turn Percy into an owl, even considering he somewhat resembles one. If they doesn't wake them up, I don't know what will." She smiled reassuringly at him, but his icy face, like the frost, did not melt.

"Percy is a silly sod," he said acidly.

"Yes, I know. We all know. But he's our brother, so we put up with it."

"He's your brother, therefore you have to put up with his sod-like behavior?"

"Of course. That's what good families do."

"I wouldn't know." Draco's shoulders slumped slightly, but only just. He lowered his head, and fought against the encroaching wave of jealousy that threatened to crash over him. When Ginny delicately draped her arm around his shoulders, his body failed to obey his mind and leaned in against her.

_What are you doing? She's a Weasley!_

_Yah? And so fucking what?_ Draco jumped slightly. He was still getting used to his new conscience - when it did make appearances (which was becoming much more often), it tended to surprise him. The two voices would do battle in his head - one voice was like silky death. The voice of his father. But the other...the voice that shouted against the previously dominant...it was rough and scratchy, yet powerful and compelling and kind. The voice of reason - the voice of every person he'd come to truly respect crammed into one. He rarely heard his father's voice in his head, not anymore. He followed the new one, head on.

_Kiss her!_

Draco blinked. Maybe not that head on. It was then that Ginny shivered, and Draco realized she was barefoot.

"Cor Blimey, Gin, do you really want your brothers to kill me! I'm not about to let you freeze to death and give them a reason, am I?" He leapt off the table, pulling her with him by the wrist, and they tramped quickly back to the house. Ginny stared at that back of his head as he dragged her inside.

_He called me Gin..._


End file.
